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New England Magazine 

An Illustrated Monthly 


March, 1910 — August, 1910 

Entered according to Act of Congress in the year 1908, by 
in the office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington 
All Rights Reserved 


Bertrand L. Chapman, President Fre Jerick W. Burrows, Editor 

Old South Building, Boston, Massachusetts 




it -ij 






Amid the Dunes, A Poem 

Another Offspring of Old Dorchester 

Apollo Club of Boston, The 

Autumn Fan, A Story 

Autumn Foliage, A Poem 


The Automobile and the Roads 

The Automobile and the Law 

The Car of To-day 

The Future of the Automobile 

The Motor Cycle 

At Whitsuntide 

I iallet School, The First American 

Beautiful New England 

For March — Good Roads 

For April — The Maple , 

For May — Maranacook, Maine 

For June — Boothbay Harbour 

For Jul)'-— Views Among the White 

For August — New England Panoramas 

Biography of a Trout 

Bird Architects and Architecture 

Bonn}- Boy, A Poem 

Brave Reward, The 

Chance, The, A Story 

Chile Trouble . 

Children on the Stage and Off 

Clap of Thunder, A 

( < '-operating for All New England 

College Trained Immigrants 

( riminal Slang 

Decade of School Administrati >n in Boston. . 

Dr. Bestor's Atonement 

External Feminine, The 

Family of Foundlings, A 

Field Sparrow Family 

Financial Outlook, The 

Flanders, Ralph L 

For Rusty and Old Heaton 

Gathering Shadows, Poem 

Gateway of Boston Harbour 

Gift of a Great Art Collector to His Native 


Graham. John M 

Clinton S collar d 439 1 

L. Elfleda Chandler * . . 355 

Ethel Syford 1 58 j 

Sui Sin Far .... 693 

Frederick Merrill Pyke .... 

IV m. D. Sohier 

George L. Ellsworth . . 
W . Mason Turner . . 

J. H. MacAlman 

LeRoy Cooke 

Leverett D. G. Bentley 
Ethel Ford 

John W. Titcomb 

L. IV. Br own ell 

Ann Partlau 

F. J. Louriet 

Edith DeBlois Laskey 

Josephine Compton Bray 

Mary Edward Leonard 

Nora Archibald Smith, 

H. B. Humphrey 

Charles S. Fairman 

Joseph M. Sullivan, L. L. B. . . . 

David A. Ellis 

Margaret Preston Lynnbrook . . 

Jane Orth 113, 

William A. Huse 

L. IV. Brownell 

Henry M. Clews 

Gail Kent 

Pauline Carrington Bouve .... 


52 b 


385 (] 

513 I 

71 I 
472 f 


649 1 
631 I, 

45 j; 


INDEX iii 

Grange, Its Works and Ideals, The Charles A. Campbell 184 

Great Object Lesson, A Eldridge King 733 

Historic Happenings on Boston Common, I . . Marion Florence Lansing .... 565 

Historic Happenings on Boston Common, II. . Marion Florence Lansing 727 

Hooker : On Beacon Hill, Poem Frederic M. Pyke 103 

How Portland was Saved by a Girl Professor Ingraham 545 

House with the Blue Blinds, The Nina Eldridge • 448 

Hymn to the Silence of Time James Brannin 658 

In the Storm f . . . . Katherine De Ford Davis 494 

Japanese Stage Judge Henry Austin 659 

John Brown and His Eastern Friends ...... Frank P. Stearns 589 

Josephine Preston Peabody Mary S toy ell Stimpson 271 

Laboring Man of To-day as Compared with 

Fifty Years Ago Richard Olney, 2d : 81 

Laurenus Clark Seelye — A Crusader in the 

Cause of Education Ethel Syford , . • . . 525 

Le Beau Port James R. Coffin 167 

Mania of Egoism, The Zitella Cocke 679 

Maritime Provinces, The, I Walter Merriam Pratt 9 

Maritime Provinces, The, II Walter Merriam Pratt 193 

Margaret Fuller Ossoli John Clair Minot 294 

Massachusetts Institute of Technology William T. Atwood • 396 

Mayor Howard of Salem Grace Agnes Thompson and 

Fred Harris Thompson 737 

Messenger, The Lawrence C. Wroth 427 

Midnight, Poem 102 

Nan's Career, I Mary R. P. Hatch 440 

Nan's Career, II Mary R. P. Hatch 561 

Nanette Owen Mason • 238 

Naturalist and His Work, A Born Ella Gilbert Jves 340 

On the Trail of the Pioneer Tafts Beatrice Putnam 279 

On Tarbell's Picture of a Girl Crocheting Pauline Carrington Bouve 416 

Our Lady of Stories Olive Vincent Marsh 574 

Our Senior Senator Frederic W. Burrows 611 

Pastoral, A Clinton Scollard 353 

Persian Rug, The William Oliver Remington .... 154 

"Portland, 1920" Charles M. Rockwood 531 

pl ato Charlotte W. Thurston 395 

Powers, Samuel Leland 627 

President Taft and Republican Party Promises. Frederic W. Burrows 137 

Prophecy for the Future, A D. N. Graves • 232 

Providence, Rhode Island George H. Webb 453 

The Gateway of Southern New England 

Quest of the Big Trout, The Arthur Lee Golder 600 

Rapids, The, Poem Aloysius Coll 652 

Return of the Horse, The Frederic W. Burrows 393 

Rodin, A Visit to Monsieur Kate Meldram Buss 435 

Rostand's Chantecler Edmond Marquand 227 

Saving a State's Mountains Charles G. Fairman 406 

Saviors of Society ' Franklin Kent Gifford 653 

Scotch Irish in America, The R u fh Dame Coolidge 747 

Sea Bride, The Theodosia Garrison 292 

Shaker Society, The Pauline Carrington Bouve .... 669 

Some Boston Memories William H. Rideing 417 

Soul of Things, The Zitella Cocke • . . 36 

Spendthrift, The James Owen Tryon 225 


Taft Administration. The Samuel L. Powers 265 

Taxation Needs of Massachusetts S. R. Wrightington 481 

Than Happiness Higher Arthur Powell 500 

Thumb-Screws of Heredity, The Agnes B. Chowen ■ 495 

Tragic in the Life of Aaron Burr, The Robert N. Reeves 103 

Typical Yankee Bird, A Margaret IV. Leighton 88 

Unseal My Leaps • 225 

Vail, Theodore N 626 

Waking Up Massachusetts Herbert F. Szvan . 615 

When the Shadows Lengthen Ellen Burns Sherman 284 

White Mask, The F. Wilbur Brooks 179 

Wing. Daniel Gould 629 

Wing Dancer, The, Poem Margaret Aliona Dole 667 

Williams College . William T. Atwood 154 

Wood Lilies. Poem Eleanor Robbins Wilson 35 

Young Naturalist and the Camera, The Dr. R. W. Shufeldt 553 



Photogra i>h 1>y Olmst.earl Brothers, Landscape Gardeners 


otograph by courtesy of the Massachusetts Highway Commission 

Massachusetts State highway, Buckund 

Photograph by courtesy of the Massachusetts Highway Commission 

The famous "Jacob's Ladder" and the new cut-oFE 

Photograph by Olmsteacl Brothers, Landscape Architects 

A road in the Berkshire Hilxs 

Photograph bj courtesy of Massachusetts Highway commission 

A Tarvia Treated Highway, Western Massachusetts 

'hotograph by courtesy of Massachusetts Highway Commissioi 


Drawing by L. T. Hammond Illustration for "A Maxim to Trust." 

"Jack Wolcott," she declared, "you've stolen somebody's car!" 

New England Magazine 

Vol. XLIL MARCH, 1910 Number 1 

The Maritime Provinces 



Author of "The Burning of Chelsea" "A Sailor's Life One Hundred Years 

Ago" etc. 

IT is a strange fact, but one worth 
noting, that many well-educated 
people think of Nova Scotia as an 
island. This syllogism, no doubt, is 
the reason that it is so hard to adjust 
one's mind readily to the idea of mo- 
toring from Yarmouth to Boston, and 
may have had something to do with the 
fact that few motor cars have made 
the trip. Until this year automobiles 
were prohibited to run upon certain 
days, and these days varied with 
the counties. The laws have been 
very effective in keeping motor-pro- 
pelled vehicles out of the Provinces, 
but at last the natives have come to 
realize it is to their interest to let them 
in, and now one may motor when and 
where he wishes, with the exception 
of Prince Edward Island. 

There is no question but what mo- 
toring is the most interesting way to 
travel through the Maritime Provinces. 
The roads on the whole are fair, and 
compare favorably with the average 
Massachusetts and New York road. 
There are bad stretches which will not 
be enjoyed, especially by the owner of 
the car, but unless one is a pessimist 

the trip will be looked back upon with 

Our party arrived in Boston about 
noon on the second Sunday in Sep- 
tember, and sailed for Yarmouth, N. 
S., on the Dominion Atlantic S.S. 
Prince George, at two o'clock on the 
same day. Our machine, which 
weighed forty-six hundred pounds, at- 
tracted much attention among the 
crew and passengers, and John, our 
chauffeur, was kept busy answering 
questions. The purser later told us it 
was the largest car the company had 
ever transported. 

There was rather a sad lot on board, 
and we turned in about ten and were 
on deck at five, for we knew that a 
sunrise off Cape Sable would be worth 
seeing, and it surely was one of the 
finest. To state that the sun seemed to 
come up out of the water like a great 
ball of fire is a little hackneyed, but 
there is no way of expressing it more 

As it rapidly rose, rays of its reflec- 
tion danced across the ball-room sur- 
face of the ocean and almost blinded 
us. Shortly after this interesting sight 




French Canadian school children 

land was sighted slightly to the star- 
board, appearing at first on the hori- 
zon as a brown strip about five feet 
long and one-half inch high. Then a 
lighthouse loomed up directly forward 
and then more land to the port, and 
finally, after poking up the narrow, 
twisting channel of the harbor, we 
were made fast at seven fifteen, Yar- 
mouth time, which is an hour later 
than Boston. After, going through the 
apparent farce of having our baggage 
examined by the officers of his ma- 

jesty's customs we went to the Grand 
Hotel for breakfast. 

This hotel we found to be one of the 
best in the Provinces and is very fair. 

Through previous correspondence we 
understood that a certified check would 
be taken as bond for the duty of 
thirty-five per cent, on the machine. 
Upon presenting it, it was not accept- 
able, but just as we were picturing a 
tedious delay of a couple of days while 
the matter was straightened out, Mr. 
Harding, the head of the local cus- 




toms, most courteously offered to in- 
troduce us at the local Bank of Mont- 
real. This straightened the matter 
out. Later in the day we had the pleas- 
ure of taking this gentleman for a ride 
about the city and into the outlying 
districts, which proved a succession of 
hills and dales, lakes and rivers. All 
of this charmingly diversified scenery 
was pointed out to us by our guest 
with much pride. 

For a town of 8000 inhabitants Yar- 
mouth is certainly progressive. It has 
about thirty-five miles of streets, lined 
with shade trees and many beautiful 

and dashed madly down the street, col- 
liding with various objects on his way. 
First it was a fruit stand that was 
upset, then some barrels in front of a 
grocery store; and so he went, leaving 
a plainly marked trail behind, until a 
pair of shafts and one wheel were all 
that remained of the carriage as he 
disappeared in the distance. 

In the evening, after attending the 
moving picture show, the one public 
amusement in town, where we saw the 
battle of Bunker Hill and watched 
General George Washington cross the 
Delaware, to the accompaniment of 

v -9-&9BW a a 

".: ; ^v!iiL'- 


The old fortress 

hawthorn hedges; attractive houses, 
with well-kept lawns, and an eighteen- 
hole golf course. 

A small-sized crowd collected when- 
ever we stopped our machine. Two or 
three other machines were to be seen 
about this city. One bore the number 
17 N. S., which satisfied us that there 
were at least that number in the coun- 

As we stopped in front of the hotel 
upon our return an incident occurred 
which gave us an inkling of what we 
might expect on our trip. A horse 
fastened to a hitching post a block 
down the street broke loose in fright, 
upset the carriage he was fastened to 

the orchestra, playing "God Save the 
King," we were hospitably entertained 
at the Merchants' Club, our guests giv- 
ing up their hands at bridge to play 
billiards with us, one of the greatest 
courtesies possible for an Englishman 
to extend. 

We left Yarmouth the next morn- 
ing at nine twenty-five, and at ten 
forty-five passed through the little 
hamlet of Bear Cove. The district 
school was having a recess, and we 
stopped with the idea of snapping a 
picture of the picturesque French chil- 
dren, but they fled in all directions, 
and hid behind stone walls, the wood- 
pile and the schoolhouse in fright, and, 



The wiuows oE Grand Pre 

as they could not understand English 
or the writer's French, the picture 
would not have been taken but for the 
teacher, who understood and ordered 
them in their native tongue to assem- 
ble. It was not until she became very 
stern that all appeared and reluctantly 
formed a line. 

During the day, and in fact the first 
few days of our trip, few horses were 
met ; oxen, with the yokes attached to 
the horns, are used for practically all 
purposes. The fields are ploughed by 
them and the harvest reaped, and 
when they become too old to be longer 
useful they are killed and eaten. 

The shore road from Yarmouth to 
Digby is the better. It is the old post 
road and is sixty-seven miles long. 
Twenty miles an hour is easily made, 
as the road is good. The only bad 
place is at Weymouth Bridge. The 
village is in a valley, on the banks of 
the vSissiboo River, and just beyond is 
a short but extremely steep and rough 
hill, ending at a railroad track. Un- 
less the driver of the car is prepared 

for it and starts the hill on the first 
speed, he is apt to have difficulty. 

Digby should be reached for lunch. 
In our case we ran out to a summer 
hotel about two miles around the bay, 
called the "Point of Pines," situated 
in a grove of pine and spruce trees 
two hundred and fifty feet above the 
sea. After a few hours spent in stroll- 
ing about the shores of Digby Basin 
we pushed on to Annapolis Royal, 
twenty-two miles away, and in passing 
through Digby spent perhaps an hour. 
We found it a pretty little town of 
2000 inhabitants, very English in its 
ways and beautifully situated. 

Away on the right stretches the 
basin, sixteen miles long, triangular 
in shape, with a base of six miles, ta- 
pering to about half a mile at the end 
where the Annapolis River enters, while 
straight ahead is the famous Digby 
Gut. Nature has here cleft a moun- 
tain barrier for a portal ; the rugged 
heights towering higfi on either hand 
would dwarf the proudest vessel ever 



The gut is the only break in the 
North Mountain for many miles, and 
through it ships pass out into the Bay 
of Fundy, and the tide rushes in with 
impetuous force for a forty-foot rise. 

The sight before us was beautiful. 
In the .distance the sloping hills, cov- 
ered with tints of red, russet and gold, 
mingled with the tamer hues of foliage 
on the mountain beyond, while in the 
foreground lay a vast expanse of sun- 
lit water, reflecting a thousand va- 
garies of the changing sky. It would 
take a magnificent intellect to describe 
the scene, and too true a description 
would have the flavor of a Munchau- 
sen tale. 

It is no wonder that Pierre du Guast, 
Sierre DuMonts, who discovered the 
basin the sixteenth of June 1604, 
while in search of a place for settle- 
ment, admired the landlocked water 
and sent glowing accounts of the coun- 
try back to the royal household of 

On the north runs the ridge of the 
North Mountain, with a narrow belt 
of level land at its foot. On the south 

Serg't Daniels oe His Majesty's Service 

the land is undulating, gradually ris- 
ing and forming the South Mountain. 
These mountains run parallel for many 
miles, and form the famous Valley of 

( To be continued) 

The meeting oe the coming and the passing monarchs oE the road 

} I 

Members oe the Chelsea Board of Control 
A. C. Ratshesky Mark Wilmarth 

W. E. McCtjntock, chairman 
Alton E. Briggs George H. Dunham 

Plan oe the Williams School Group, a portion oe which is already erected 

and in use 

The New Chelsea 

Chairman of the Chelsea Board of Control 

THE very smoke that rises from 
a great conflagration differs in 
its constituents and appearance 
from that of lesser fires. The intense 
heat lifting huge masses of half- 
burned material into the air and the 
great variety of substance that goes 
to feed the all-devouring flames, give 
a heavy, oleaginous quality to the pall 
that overhangs the doomed district. 

It was a silent city that, called from 
Sabbath quiet by the' huge, flame-lit 
cloud and the swift rumor that in the 
course of an hour reached a million 
people huddled together at every point 
of vantage, helplessly watching the de- 
struction of Chelsea. 

On the twelfth day of April, 1908, 
at about quarter to eleven in the morn- 
ing, the fire broke out in the north- 
westerly part of the city. The wind 
was blowing a gale from the northwest. 
There had been no rain for many days, 
and in an incredibly short time the 
flames were beyond control. Scores of 
houses were burning and by dark two 
hundred and eighty-seven acres had 
been burned over, destroying property 
valued at $17,000,000 and turning 16,- 
coo people out of their homes Nine- 

teen lives were lost. All shade and 
fruit trees on the streets and lots 
were destroyed, and fully one-half the 
granite curbing was rendered useless. 
About one-half the fire loss was cov- 
ered by insurance. The loss of assess- 
able property was about five and a 
half million dollars. 

Among the buildings burned were 
eleven churches, the Frost Hospital, 
Day Nursery, Young Men's Christian 
Association building, City Hall, City 
Stables, two Fire Department houses, 
Public Library, High Service Pumping 
Station and eight school houses. 

It is this terrible calamity which 
forms the point of departure for the 
story of New Chelsea. 

Back of that all is history — history, 
however, that is all the more closely 
held in affectionate remembrance for 
the disaster that has swept away its 
visible memorials. 

Full of interest and not devoid of 
dignity was the history of old Chel- 

Sheltered from the winds of the At- 
lantic by the outlying towns of Revere 
and Winthrop, and that section of the 
metropolis known as East Boston, 




The new Shurt^eeE schooe 

Chelsea occupies a peninsula, once 
called Winnisimmet, fronting on the 
Mystic River and its two tributaries, 
the Island End and Chelsea Rivers. 
Its area, of fourteen hundred acres, 
presents an undulating surface, rising 
from the level of the salt marshes to 
four considerable elevations known as 
Hospital Hill, Mount Bellingham, 
Powderhorn Hill and Mount Washing- 

About one-half of those made home- 
less found shelter in Chelsea, the other 
half were cared for in the nearby 
cities and towns. 

On the night of the fire a relief com- 
mittee was organized, who, aided by 
the church and other organizations, 
furnished food and shelter, clothes and 
bedding for those madehomeless. There 
was no real suffering among these 
people so turned out of their homes, 
but there was great inconvenience and 

A committee of strong business men, 

headed by James J. Storrow, appointed 
by Acting Governor Draper, performed 
heroic service in carrying on the relief 
work and the people of Chelsea will be 
ever grateful for what these men did. 

In response to a call for aid there 
was subscribed $360,000, which was 
first used to relieve the immediate 
wants of the sufferers and later to re- 
habilitate them so far as possible. 

After the fire there was a widespread 
feeling that the city could not be 
quickly and economically rebuilt and 
remodelled by the Mayor and the 
Aldermen. This feeling culminated in 
a petition to the General Court for a 
commission form of government. The 
petition was favored by the Board of 
Trade, the Manufacturers' Association 
and generally by representative busi- 
ness and professional men from all 
parts of the city. 

In May, 1908, an act was passed creat- 
ing a Board of Control, who should 
perform all the duties of the Mayor 



and Aldermen. This board was to 
consist of five men, to be appointed by 
the Governor, three for a term of five 
years, one for a term of two years, and 
one for a term of three years. The 
last two were to go before the voters 
for re-election. In the fall of 191 1 a 
Mayor and Aldermen are to be elected, 
and the Board of Control will then 
perform the duties of a supervisory 
board. In 1912, the question will be 
put to the voters : "Will the Board of 
Control be continued?" 

Acting Governor Draper appointed 
on this Board W. E. McClintock, Alton 
E. Briggs and George H. Dunham of 
Chelsea, A. C. Ratshesky of Boston 
and Mark Wilmarth of Maiden. Mr. 
Dunham's term expired in 1909. He 
was re-elected. Mr. Briggs' term ex- 
pires in 1910. The board organized on 
Jan. 3, 1908, and elected Mr. W. E. 
McClintock as chairman. With the 
appointment of the Board of Control, 
the Mayor, Alderman and School Com- 

mittee ceased to be. The first act of 
the new board was to elect a School 
Committee of five members at large, 
to take the place of the old one of 

Inasmuch as the question of munici- 
pal government is receiving much at- 
tention in all parts of the country, and 
new charters and governments by 
commission are on trial, or about to 
be put to the test, it might be of in- 
terest to know how this particular 
commission has proceeded to solve the 
problem and what it has accomplished. 

The Chelsea Board of Control never 
for a moment assumed that they in- 
dividually or collectively were to take 
charge of the different departments. 
They were charged with both legis- 
lative and executive powers, and un- 
derstood that, generally, the executive 
powers were to be exercised through 
the heads of departments with sug- 
gestions or orders when such seemed 
necessary to correct or direct. They 



could combine, create or abolish depart- 
ments, and discharge and appoint the 

The entire board has kept in touch 
with all the problems presented, al- 
though committees of one or two mem- 
bers have been appointed from time 
to time to investigate and report on 
particular subjects which required de- 
tailed study and comparison of methods 
and costs. The reports of these com- 
mittees might be analyzed and acted 
upon at once, or they might form the 
basis of argument at one or more meet- 
ings before final action, and the final 
action might be quite different from 
that recommended. Sufficient time 
and discussion have been given to as- 
sure a unanimous vote on every im- 
portant question. 

The heads of departments have not 
met with the Board at fixed and regular 
times, but the head of each depart- 
ment has been called in whenever 
it seemed necessary for the Board 

to obtain or give information or 

And further than this the officers of 
coporations, manufacturers, and others 
have been summoned to a consulta- 
tion with the Board when an inter- 
change of ideas would furnish a 
mutual understanding of any question. 

After the conflagration, the natural 
antagonism between the fire under- 
writers and the management of .the 
city was developed to a perplexing de- 
gree. Rates of insurance were ad- 
vanced : — demands were made for an in- 
crease of fire apparatus and the number 
of permanent men in the fire depart- 
ment. The enforcement of more strin- 
gent building laws was insisted upon. 
Various conferences were held in 
which the underwriters, with some of 
the leading insurance agents and 
builders of repute, participated, and 
after a thorough discussion the fire de- 
partment was so increased and a 

The new Armory Buii/ding, Chelsea 




Some oe Chelsea's new church buildings 
Polish Catholic church Bellingham Methodist church 

First Congregational church First Baptist church 

building code enacted which met the 
approval of all parties concerned and 
was declared to be as good as the best. 

The question of increased efficiency, 
of the water mains for protection of 
some of the large manufacturing in- 
terests required many conferences be- 
tween the Board and the Water Com- 
missioners, manufacturers and under- 
writers, before a system was planned 
and constructed which overcame all 

In the Police and Fire Departments 
political influence has been absolutely 
eliminated. The chiefs of these im- 
portant branches were notified that 
they held responsible for the 
proper protection of life and property, 
for the efficient and economical main- 
tenance of all apparatus, for discipline 
among the men and for general effici- 
ency. If any man, for any reason, was 
unfit to perform the duties assigned 

him the chief was to report the case 
to the Board and no one would be ap- 
pointed by the Board without a certifi- 
cation from the Civil Service Com- 
mission and recommendation of the 

The policy outlined for the Police 
and Fire Departments, so far as em- 
ployment of men is concerned, has 
been pursued in all of the departments. 

The Board has experienced no diffi- 
culty in having its policies carried out 
or methods adopted. All of these have 
been done by conferences and sug- 
gestions : rarely has an order been re- 

Street improvements, arrangement of 
pole lines, burying of wires, new con- 
tracts for street lighting, keeping out 
noxious trades, improvement of sani- 
tary conditions, safer buildings, better 
plumbing, more space between build- 
ings, less crowding in tenements, are 



among the things which the Board 
have undertaken to control, and, in a 
large measure, successfully. 

In dealing with public service cor- 
porations, the Board has been emi- 
nently successful. Conferences and 
arguments have made mutual under- 
standing possible, and secured for the 
city every improvement asked for. 

On the morning of April 12, 1908, 
Chelsea had a population of about 
38,000 and valuation of $25,969,700. 
The total amount of the tax levy, au- 

new valuation gives a tax rate of 
$28.20 on each thousand dollars. Un- 
questionably such a rate would act as 
a prohibition to the rebuilding of the 

The city was insured on the build- 
ings destroyed, $228,34247; from this 
the Board appropriated $141,932.32, 
which, added to the yield from the re- 
duced valuation, made it possible to 
maintain the same rate as in the previ- 
ous year. 

In addition to loss of buildings, each 

The house oe "Engine 5," one oe Chelsea's new Fire Department structures 

thorized by the Mayor and Aldermen 
earlier in the year, was $587,280.22. 

In a few short hours 15,000 people 
were rendered homeless, and 8000 of 
these found shelter. out of the city: 
about- $17,000,000 worth of property 
had been destroyed and the valuation 
for assessing purposes had been re- 
duced to $20,820,720. 

A little figuring shows that to raise 
the amount already mentioned on the 

department met with losses or were 
pat to a cost aggregating $62,166; 
of this amount $60,000 was carried 
forward as a deficit to be cared for as 
circumstances permitted. 

Estimates were made of probable 
receipts and expenses for a period of 
four years, and the deduction from 
these figures was that twenty-three 
dollars would be the highest rate. The 
yield on the new valuation at a rate 



of twenty-three dollars, added to the 
$60,000 remaining- in the insurance 
money, apparently would furnish a 
sufficiently large amount to meet the 
requirements of the departments, debt 
requirements and the State levies for 
tax, parks, and sewers for 1909. 

At the end of the year because of 
increased receipts in the contingent 
account and economy in the different 
departments there was a surplus of 
nearly $53,000. 

policy to fix a rate for 1910 which was 
too low to permit of a reduction in the 
year following. Hence, the rate used 
for the year 1910, as a theoretical rate, 
was $22.40. If the estimate of condi- 
tions are of any value there should 
be a surplus at the end of the year of 
$12,000, and this, together with the 
surplus brought over, will make it 
possible to pay off $20,000 of the re- 
maining $40,000 of the fire deficit and 
$10,000 for installation of water meters. 

New eire-prooe city stables 

This surplus made it possible to pay 
off $20,000 of the $60,000 deficit, 
$io;ooo for installing water meters; 
$3,500 for extraordinary expenses due 
to damages caused by a tidal wave, and 
still have a balance in the treasury of 
about $18,000. 

In determining the rate for 1910 
consideration was given to the next 

While a steadily decreasing tax rate 
is desirable, it would not be good 

If the building during the next year 
continues at the same rate as for the 
past year, the valuation of 191 1 will 
insure a rate of about $21.20. 

As a part of the expenditure for 
191 1 there is interest and sinking 
funds, on a general debt, amounting to 
about $73,000. The sinking funds will 
cancel the general debt of $899,500, at 
the close of next year, and the expendi- 
ture for 1912 will be reduced by 
$73,000 or an equivalent of about 

oo . 


Pi,ant oe the Forbes Lithograph Manufacturing Company 

$2.80 on the thousand on the tax 

To sum up*, in about four years, not- 
withstanding the almost overwhelming 
catastrophe, the city will have recov- 
ered its lost valuation, returned to a 
tax rate lower than it was before the 
fire, and have a growth which insures 
an increase in valuation larger in pro- 
portion than the increase in expendi- 

These are not mere roseate prophe- 
cies, but sober statements of fact and 
cold figures. 

Before the beginning of the last 

quarter of 1908 all the departments had 
as nearly returned to normal conditions 
as was possible in the restricted quar- 
ters they were forced to occupy. The 
Board met daily except on Saturday 
for the transaction of routine business. 
They have kept in touch with the dif- 
ferent departments by examination of 
the work being done and by confer- 
ences with the heads of departments. 
They have been accessible at all times 
to petitioners and others. All work of 
any magnitude has been advertised 
and the bids have in every case been 
publicly opened and read and the 




contracts awarded to the lowest bid- 

The heads of departments have been 
given responsible charge of their re- 
spective departments, with full power 
to select their own men. The entire 
city ordinances have been revised and 
an inspection department created which 
has enforced the new building laws. As 
a result of careful building, the in- 
surance rate, which soon after the fire 
was increased ten cents on a hundred 
dollars, was restored in 1909. 

The removal of the buildings by fire 
made it possible to make certain de- 
sirable street widenings and extensions. 

Seven streets, aggregating about two 
miles in length were thus improved. 

At the present time, twenty-two 
months after the fire, there have been 
built a Central Fire Station, a two-way 
fire engine house, a City Stable plant 
complete, one school house of thirty 
rooms and one school house of twenty- 
four rooms. A new public library build- 
ing is ready for the interior finish and 
a city hall is under good headway. The 
best equipped architects for the respec- 
tive buildings have been employed, and 
the competition among the builders 
has been lively, the work having been 
done at remarkably low figures. All the 




New building oE the 

public buildings have been built of com- 
mon materials, with no effort at orna- 
mentation except such as could be ob- 
tained by artistic planning. The in- 
terior finish has been plain, but every 
effort has been made to secure all 
modern conveniences in heating, ven- 
tilating, lighting and sanitation. The 
school buildings have commodious as- 
sembly halls and are provided with in- 
terior fire-escapes approached from the 
corridors by the way of balconies 
opening to the outer air. As a further 
safeguard against fire or panic, each 
floor is protected by swinging fire 
doors, which confine the smoke to the 
stairwells, which are on the opposite 
side of the building from the fire-es- 
capes, or to the floor where a fire may 

The lots on which the school build- 
ings are built are of sufficient size to 
give ample light and air for all time 
and to permit of the planting of trees 

and shrubs. There will also be op- 
portunity for playgrounds. 

The feeling of the board was that if 
the city government showed confidence 
in the future of the city, that confidence 
would be shared by the. individual, and 
this would mean better houses for resi-^ 
dence and more dignified blocks for 
business. In this direction the fondest 
hopes of the board have been realized 
and the city is rebuilding on good, sub- 
stantial lines. 

Not only have houses and business 
blocks been built, but the good people 
who met with such terrible losses have 
found time and furnished the means to 
rebuild the Frost Hospital, a Masonic 
Temple and six churches. Recently, 
in the short space of ten days, there 
was raised $72,000 for a Y. M. C. A. 

There is a good reason to believe 
that in a few years the burned district 
will be rebuilt and that the population 



of the city will be fifty thousand and 
the valuation $35,000,000. 

To pay the bills of rebuilding, bonds, 
of the city to the amount of $1,000,000 
were sold. The bonds run fifty years. 
The first issue for $400,000 was in 
August, 1908. These were four per 
cent, and sold. at a premium of $12,636. 
The second issue for $500,000 at three 
and one-half per cent, was in February, 
1909, and the premium on these was 
$20,860. The third for $100,000 at four 
per cent, was in February, 1910, and the 
premium on these was $8,310.' Because 
of the low rate and high premiums, the 
annual cost for interest and sinking 
funds on the rebuilding loan is but 

The policy of the Board is to pay all 
running expenses of the city out of 
current receipts and borrow only for 
permanent work, or for structures 
which will endure for a longer time 
than the bonds are to run. 

Although the fire burned through the 
centre of the city, destroying business 
and residential streets, the large manu- 
factories skirting the city were left in- 
tact, and have been successfully op- 
erating without shut-downs. Few 
cities of the country, of the same popu- 
lation, have a more varied manu- 
facturing interest than has Chelsea. 
Eight of these manufactories have a 
weekly pay-roll ranging from eight to 
sixteen thousand dollars, and the 
products are sent to all parts of the 
world. The men at the head of these 
concerns are public spirited, loyal to 
the^ city and always stand ready to 
assist in any good work with their time 
and money. 

The location of the city is an ideal 
one for manufacturing. It is but three 
miles from Boston, is served by the 
Boston and Maine and the New York 
Central Railroads, and has an excellent 
water front. 

_ Among the manufacturing corpora- 
tions that have found location peculi- 
arly available for broad business opera- 
tions and who are enthusiastic sup- 
porters of the idea of a Greater Chel- 
sea, are the following : — 

Atwood & MacManus, boxes. 

Bartels, Thelen & Company, shoes. 

Bay State Improved Box Company. 

Boston Blacking Company. 

Boston Filter Company. 

Boston Gore and Web Manufacturing 
Company, elastic goods. 

Boston Whiting Company. 

Samuel Cabot, chemicals. 

W. T. Cardy and Sons Company, boxes. 

Chadbourne and More, goring. 

Chelsea Clock Company. 

Forbes Lithograph Mfg. Company. 

Griffin Car Wheel Company. 

F. B. Holmes & Co., shoes. 

Lovewell-Henrici Laundry Machinery 

Lynch Brothers, carriages. 

Magee Furnace Company. 

T. Martin and Brother Manufacturing 
Company, elastic goods. 

Lyman M. Miller, varnishes. 

Miller & Wolf, shoes. 
Wm. J. Murdock & Company, electrical 

Parry Brick Company. 

Parsons Mfg. Company, boxes. 

Revere Rubber Company. 

Sawyer Crystal Blue Company. 

W. A. Snow & Company, stable fittings. 

Stickeny & Tirrell, whiting. 

Thomas Strahan & Company, wall 

United Indigo and Chemical Co., Ltd. 
Walker Brothers, bleachings and ex- 
A. G. Walton & Company, shoes. 

As late as 1830, Winnisimmet was 
of no importance except as a market 
garden and a thoroughfare. 

Of the seven hundred and seventy- 
one inhabitants of Chelsea, but thirty 
lived within the present limits of the 

What a change is revealed by the 
above list of great and flourishing in- 
dustries now located in this district ! 

No romance of Western development 
is more astonishing. And the end is 
not yet. There are still many ideal fac- 
tory sites available and certain to be 
utilized in the near future, making old 
Chelsea one of the great industrial cen- 
ters of the world. 

The First American Ballet School 


THE ballet is ever recurrent 
throughout the pages of all 
history. Since the days of 
Lully the chronicling is of the ballet 
as an actuality. Previous to this time 
it took many shapes, — it flits about to 
the delight of lords and ladies at a 
court festivity; or, mayhap, we turn 
to the page which tells of Queen Eliza- 
beth and her guests dancing a ballet 
after dinner. Again, it wears a mask 
of solemn mien and is the pantomimic 
sacrificial dance of antiquity. There 
is no age in which we cannot at least 
find a tendency which in purpose and 
result may be characterized as the 
ballet tendency of that age. Neverthe- 
less, artistic ballet in its completest 
florescence belongs to the time of 
Xoverre, "the Shakespeare of the 

- Menestrier had said, "Ballets are 
dumb comedies divided into acts and 
scenes by recitations." Noverre, about 
1750, said, "Ballet is the representa- 
tion of passionate actions and human 
feelings dramatically expressed by 
gestures and dancing." 

He took the world for the mise en 
scene for the ballet and interpreted it 
so extensively that some one said : 
"Ah, next we will be dancing the max- 
ims of Rochefoucauld." And Noverre 
said the last word that has as yet been 
said. However, the ballet has never 
ceased to breathe. England has cor- 
rupted it to the point of vulgarity 
and America has had scarcely any 
worthy of the name. Stanley Mak- 
ower says something about the soul 
of the ballet being a flower which 
only blossoms once in a hundred 
years. Perhaps the hundred count has 

The Boston Opera Ballet School is 

the first ballet school established in 
America. The trumpet sounded in 
January a year ago. A tiny advertise- 
ment asked for applicants for ballet 
dancing, — for girls under twenty and 
not too stout. The response was im- 
mediate and remarkable. Girls from 
all over the East replied by letter and 
in person, — about two hundred in all. 
Out of these fifty were selected. The 
number was almost entirely composed 
of saleswomen, clerks, or stenogra- 
phers. There were only a very few 
who had any previous stage experience. 
They were given no salary during the 
period of instruction. 

The work is strenuous and, at first, 
very fatiguing, but only two dropped 
the work of their own accord and be- 
cause it was beyond their strength. 
Before the opening dates they had 
mastered the ballets of all the operas 
to be announced. 

The opening night was the perform- 
ance of "La Giaconda," in which the 
ballet is important. The ballet was 
the hit of the evening. "Aida" was 
given two nights later, requiring an 
entirely different style of interpreta- 
tion, and was an equal success. 

Since the opening the girls have 
received a regular salary, about 
equivalent to that of a school 
teacher, and all thoroughly enjoy 
their work. 

The girls of the ballet school are 
trained by the ballet mistress, Mad- 
ame Bettina Muschietto, and by Mad- 
ame Maria Paporello, leader of the 
corps de ballet. 

Both have danced in Europe as 
premiere danseuse and know the art of 
ballet dancing thoroughly. Their deep 
sincerity and proficiency is an im- 



portant element in their success with 
the ballet school. 

Madame Muschietto was born in 
Vienna. At seven years of age she en- 
tered the Grand Opera School of Ballet 
at Vienna. She went to an Italian mas- 
ter for finishing ideas and at fifteen was 
premiere in Vienna. She then went 
to Prague, where she was premiere at 
the National Theatre/ She was pre- 
miere with 
Fritzschi in 
Berlin in 
grand ballet 
and also 
under Imle 
K i r a 1 fi in 
London iri 
the grand 
ballet, "In- 
dia." Under 
Fritzschi the 
grand ballet, 
— "Pup'pen 
Fee" and 
"Meis s n e r 

She then 
married and 
came to the 
Company of 
New York, 
but gave up 
the work of 
a premiere. 
There Con- 
ried gave her 
training o f 
girls import- 
ed for ballet 
work. "It 
was very ex- 
" she 

Madame Bettina Muschietto, baixet mistress 


said, /'and very unsatisfactory." Ma- 
dame Muschietto then came to Boston 
to be ballet-mistress for the school pro- 
posed by Mr. Russell. Out of the fifty 
girls chosen but thirty-six were re- 
tained.. "It is very hard," said Mme. 
Muschietto. "Some are not limber 
enough, others lack courage. On 
account of the newness of things some 

difficulties were encountered. In 
Europe every theatre has a practice 
room especially for the ballet, — the 
ballet is very important in Europe, 
you know, — but here we practiced 
in the main foyer and often with- 
out music — I must know every 
note. Ah, the ballet is an art. 
One must be filled with the idea, as 
an actor is. You must feel all you 

do. A ballet 
with her 
feet and 
arms. You 
need not ask 
her, -What 
do you do ?' 
It is more 
than merely 
knowing the 
steps. To be 
a good pre- 
miere means 
at least four 
or five hours 
of practice 
every day. 
One master 
shows one 
idea, another 
makes you 
proficient in 
point. Then, 
after one is- 
about twen- 
ty-six she be- 
gins to see 
all, — to see 
the bigness 
of her art, 
and ah, when 
one under- 
stands all then the real satisfaction 
comes. But ah, soon she is too old. 

"One thing I long to enjoy before 
I die, — to give away what I have. I 
never wanted to as I do now since I 
have seen what American girls can do 
and how clever they are. Yes, I want 
to have my own private school. I 
can't believe how the eirls did it. 



Such alertness ! Such memory ! Some- 
times things would be changed at the 
last minute and I must have but one 
rehearsal on the substituted work, but 
they never failed me. 

"There are not many premieres now- 
adays. The new and modern life has 
not required them. There are so 
many dancers now, you know, who 
simply appear undressed that there is 
no more interest in the real grand 
ballet. There 
is a great art 
in pantomime 
and it takes 
much study. 
Every move- 
ment says a 

"I am not 
hard on the 
girls. I try 
to let them 
see I am 
their friend, 
and they 
come to me 
with all their 
troubles and 

"The first 
exercises are 
those used 
for the form- 
ing of the 
feet and in 
which the 
heels are 
placed to- 
g e t h e r so 
that from 
toe to toe 
forms a 
straight line. 
Next come 
the arm 

movements. There is a series of slow 
movements, 'Adagio,' which are very 
difficult. A movement is taken, per- 
haps one foot is in the air — and then 
the pupil must pose there. This is to 
acquire balance. Then come the steps. 
The better a ballet master is the more 
steps he knows," says Madame Mu- 
schietto. "After the steps comes the 

Maria Paporello, trader oe the corps de bai^et 

toe work, — pirouetting, jumping on the 
toe and 'adagio' poses, while standing 
on the toe. 

"I like Giaconda best," says Madame 
Muschietto. "It is the longest and 
most satisfactory. The music in the 
'Dance of the Hours' lifts you up. So 
much depends on whether the music 
is inspiring to make the ballet a real 
enjoyment to the dancer." 

The leader of the corps de ballet is 

Mme. Maria 
Paporello, a 
petite, grace- 
ful bit of 
with honest 
blue eyes 
and a most 
manner. She 
was born in 
Turin, Italy, 
and her 
mother, Em- 
ma Paporel- 
lo, was a pre- 
miere dan- 
s e u s e in 
France and 
in America. 
Her father 
was an or- 
chestra mu- 
sician. Maria 
was two 
months old 
when her 
mother came 
to the Metro- 
p o 1 i t a n as 
premiere. At 
fourteen she, 
too, came to 
America, and 
at fifteen she 
danced at the Metropolitan as one of 
the corps de ballet under Maurice 
Grau. She remained there two seasons 
and then went to Klaw and Erlanger 
as the leader in "Ben Hur" and in the 
"Humpty Dumpty" ballet. She was 
with Mr. Russell for two seasons in 
the San Carlos Opera Company and 
last season she was with Hammerstein 



as leader of the corps de ballet. Since 
the opening of the Boston Opera she 
has assisted in the training of the girls 
and is their leader. She was most 
pathetic as she said, "Oh, how ha,rd it 
all was. The first season I cried every 
night. My mother trained me and it 
was all so easy for her that she had 
no patience with me. My muscles got 
so sore, but she would only make me 
work harder. She wanted me to be 
perfect and I am glad now, but it 
was so hard then. Ah, how badly 
I. felt when I would get my arms and 
legs right but not my head. I re- 
member once when I did that very 
thing and my mother came and turned 
my head until I thought I could not 
stand it, to make me remember. Then, 
too, I must remember to finish each 
action in a position so that I could 
readily go to one side, — and many 
other things. 

"My mother taught me all alone. 
She was all wrapped up in her work. 
She never stopped working and would 
never let me stop. Even while I ate 

I must work. She would say, 'How 
do you do this, — and that?' and make 
me go over it with my hands. Then 
I must explain a whole dance entirely 
through to her. Oh, I would get so 
tired, and my limbs so sore, but on 
and on. 

"But I am glad now, because I know 
how hard it is." 

The ballet has been received with 
the utmost enthusiasm. Mr. Theodore 
Bauer, the efficient press representa- 
tive of the Boston Opera Company, 
with his keen appreciation of artistic 
values, has recognized the value of the 
ballet, and has lost no opportunity of 
bringing it to the notice of the public. 

Its creation, development and suc- 
cess have been caused and sustained 
largely by the untiring efforts of Mr. 
Henry Russell. 

To see this newly created American 
ballet is to realize that America is 
opening her arms to a new art. Bos- 
ton once more is the first to exploit 
American artistic possibilities and 
gives her promise to the operatic world. 

Summer practice of the corps de baixet oE Boston opera 

A Maxim to Trust 

Author of "The Fealty of Ling Sien Sun," etc. 

SN'T it great, Jack?" 
said Bobs. "Mother's 
got one of those 
new Maxim sixty 
horse-power touring 
cars, and I'm going 
out with Pierre to- 
morrow to take my 
first lesson in run- 
ning it. You know 
I've never handled 
anything bigger than 
a forty before, and I'm crazy to learn 
to run this one." 

"Why, that's funny," I replied. "The 
Dad's just got one of those cars, too. 
It's the greatest car on the market to- 
day. But they're a pretty big proposi- 
tion for a girl like you, Bobs. Don't 
you think — " 

"Why, Jack," she cried, "no such 
thing. You know I can handle any- 
thing on four wheels and I just love — " 
"Yes," I interrupted, " — and any man 
on two legs, and you don't love — the 
right one." 

"Now, Jack," she remonstrated, 
"don't get tiresome. If you do I shall 
leave this nice little cosy corner, and 
go back into the ball-room, and I don't 
want to do that, because if I do, that 
horrid Percy Breckenridge will find 
me and claim this dance, and I just 
want to hide from him." 

"And I suppose that's the only 
reason why you sat it out with me," I 
said, bitterly. "Bobs, you're not play- 
ing the game with me. Don't all my 
years of devotion count for something 
with you? Don't — can't — " 

"Oh, dear," wailed Bobs, with an 
intonation of mock despair that would 
have been funny had it not all meant 

so much to me. "Now you are going 
to be silly again and make me cross. 
Well," with feigned resignation, "J 
suppose you are going to make me 
your usual proposal. If so, for good- 
ness sake hurry up and get it over." 

"Bobs," I said, sternly, "you know 
without my having to tell you again 
that I love you, and that I have always 
loved you ever since we were kids, 
and shall go on loving you forever and 
ever and ever — " 

" 'World without end,' " she quoted, 
mischievously, interrupting, "Well, is 
this another of your periodical pro- 

"Miss Roberta Brewster," I said, 
stiffly, for her manner stung me, "I 
have the honor once more to ask you 
to marry me." 

She rose from her seat and swept me 
an ironic courtesy. 

"And I have the honor of declining, 
Mr. Jack Wolcott," she said, ceremoni- 
ously. "And now if you'll have the 
goodness to take me back to momma 
I'll relieve you of your care of me." 

"By Jupiter," I cried, angrily, as I 
arose and formally gave her my arm. 
"Some day you'll drive me to despera- 
tion and I'll just carry you off and 
marry you out of hand, and — " 

"Do," she exploded, turning to me 
with her eyes flashing and her chin in 
the air, angrily challenging me. 

And just then up came that simper- 
ing ass Breckenridge, claiming what 
was left of the dance, and she went off 
on his arm, smiling on him as if he was 
the candiest thing that ever happened. 

I knew, in my heart, that she didn't 
care a rap for him, but, all the same, 
it made me sick and miserable, and so 



I sought my coat and hat, and made 
my way home to the apartment which 
I shared with my widowered father. 

It was true, as I had said, that I had 
loved Roberta, or as I had always 
affectionately called her, "Bobs," ever 
since when I was a lad of fourteen, she 
had come into my life, an enchanting 
little fairy of eleven. We had been de- 
voted to each other, the source of in- 
dulgent amusement to our elders. From 
the first, with the innocent optimism of 
youth, I had stoutly declared, and she 
had agreed, that she was to be my 
little wife. We had grown up together 
in a close companionship, for our 
fathers — until the death of hers some 
three years earlier — and her mother — 
I had never known mine, who had died 
in giving me life — had been intimate 
friends. I had always been passion- 
ately devoted to all kinds of sports, and 
— if I do say it — had excelled in most, 
and it had been an intense delight to 
me to create and develop a fondness 
for them in my little companion, and an 
unending pleasure to watch her grow- 
ing proficiency, until in most lines she 
was as efficient as the limitations of 
her sex would allow. And I was proud 
of her; and oh, how I loved her. 

And my love never waned or flick- 
ered for one instant, but had grown 
stronger and deeper as the years had 
passed, so that from boyish adulation 
it had developed into the living, grip- 
ping passion of the strong man, and I 
knew that she was the only woman I 
should ever love and that I should love 
her as long as life lasted. 

Her childish love for me. seemed to 
cling to her until, when I was nineteen 
and through my Freshman year at col- 
lege and she was sixteen, she had gone 
abroad with her mother, after her 
father's death, and I had not seen her 
for three years. During all that time 
we had corresponded regularly, and, 
with the egregious self-confidence of 
youth, I had looked forward to her re- 
turn with the full anticipation of our 
being promptly married. But I was 
soon and bitterly disillusioned, for 
when she came back I found in her a 
subtle change. She had left me an 

adorable, bewitching child; she re- 
turned an entrancing, ravishingly 
beautiful, but elusive woman ; my com- 
rade still, as of old, in many ways ; but 
a tantalizing, mischievous spirit. But 
I loved her more than ever. 

She came back the summer I left col- 
lege, now two years ago, and during 
that time I had been dividing my time 
between reading law in my father's 
office and making love to her. Deep 
down in my heart I believed that she 
loved me, too ; and so, although I 
yearned with all that was man in me to 
win her and wear her, I had been con- 
tent to accept her frivolous attitude of 
refusing to treat as serious the repeated 
proposals that I lost no opportunity 
of making to her. The fact that she 
had come to treat them as a mild joke 
and pretend that our meetings were 
not complete without one, had only 
served to mildly amuse me, and, here- 
tofore, although serious enough in my 
intentions, God knows, I had more or 
less fallen into her humor. 

But of late, horrid, awesome doubts 
had begun to disquiet me ; I had bitter 
fits of jealousy as I saw other men 
swarming about her, and the black, 
heart-stopping fear of the thought of 
having to go through life without her 
had gripped me : and to-night my love 
had overwhelmed me and just when I 
had most wanted to lay my love before 
her in all its deep strength and tender- 
ness and sincerity, my agony of fears 
and doubt and anxiety and my 
wretched quick temper had made me 
hard and bitter. And so I had lost 
her ! And oh, God ! How I loved her ! 

So, as I walked down Common- 
wealth Avenue the next morning, after 
a sleepless night of tossing and turn- 
ing, I was in anything but a hopeful 
and happy mood. In fact I was 
thoroughly blue and miserable. But 
as I passed the Fontainbleau apart- 
ment house where Bobs and her mother 
lived, I mechanically looked up at the 
window from which she was wont on 
most mornings to wave me a greeting, 
and my heart, insensibly hoping, I sup- 
pose, sank deeper than ever as she did 
not appear. Well, it was all over, I 



thought. I had been living in a fool's 
paradise. But now my dream of bliss 
was over. Heretofore when we had 
had any little squabble Bobs had mag- 
nanimously overlooked everything and 
forgotten it by the next day, and would 
wave to me from the window, and 
everything would go on as before, and 
I, weak fool, had been glad to have it 
so. But this time — well, I'd go abroad 
for a year or two — and kill something, 
— big game, — India, Africa, any old 
place, — what did it matter? 

Just as I was passing the door I 
turned my eyes toward the curb and 
was at once attracted by a handsome, 
big car standing there without any 
attendant. Now, both Bobs and I are 
— as she expresses it — "crazy about 
automobiles," and, next to her, they 
are the things that I am most inter- 
ested in and love best. I could see 
it was a new type of car and turned to 
examine it. I saw at once it was a 60- 
H.P. Maxim and as I had seen very 
little of this most recent car I was 
at once much interested, and proceeded 
to" examine it. 

I was so deeply engrossed that I 
failed to hear any approaching foot- 
steps, and was startled when a voice 
said : 

"Hullo, Jack." 

Just like that, "Hullo, Jack." Just 
as if nothing had happened. Great 
Caesar! Of course it was Bobs. That's 
just Bobs' way. Joy welled up in my 
heart with a sudden surge that almost 
stopped it, and the day suddenly be- 
came beautiful. And how sweet and 
beautiful and altogether lovable she 
looked. She was dressed as I like best 
to see her. Plainly but richly. None 
of your big, flaring, flashy hats, but 
some quiet, little round thing, mostly 
of grey squirrel fur, trimmed with blue 
that matched her glorious eyes, and a 
long, loose coat of the same, which, 
being yet unbottoned, -showed a neat, 
close-fitting gown of grey (grey is her 
most becoming color), plentifully and 
temptingly trimmed and inserted (or 
whatever you call it) with lace and 
grey silk cord, grey gloves on her little 
hands, and grey boots peeping out 

under her gown, — just a symphony in 
grey. And she was smiling bewilder- 

"Hullo," I said, as soon as I could 
get my breath, "I was just looking 
over the machine." 

"Jack," she commanded, "take me 
for a ride." 

"All right," I said, with never a 
thought- but for the delirious fact that 
she was to sit beside me and that I 
was to have her all to myself and that 
the sun was shining as it had never 
shone before. 

If I could ever be happier than I 
was during that ride I just couldn't 
stand it, that's all. If Heaven is any 
better — but, there, it just couldn't be. 
It was enchantment and no less. My 
beautiful Bobs was her own dear, sweet 
little self, my own dear little comrade, 
and she chatted and laughed and 
teased, and I knew she was as happy 
as she was making me, and I felt the 
old glamor stealing over me and the 
old belief that she loved me as I loved 
her, and that it would all come right. 
And my heart beat sixteen to the dozen 
and the blood surged up into my head 
at the thought, and I made up my mind 
that this time there should be no mis- 
take, but that before we got home 
again there should be an understand- 
ing, that she should know that my 
love was too great and strong to be 
played with any longer and that she 
must come to me. 

And the car was like an enchanted 
car, too. With all our joy in just be- 
ing alive and together, or perhaps be- 
cause of it, we took the pleasure of en- 
thusiasts in the car and in the running 
of it. It certainly was a marvel. The 
very last word in automobiles. I tried 
it out and tested it in every way, and 
when opportunity permitted, speeded 
it out, and we rolled off the miles at 
—well, away above all speed limits — 
and as smoothly and softly as if sitting 
in our own armchairs. 

It was a combination of all delights. 
But the sun couldn't shine like that 
without a cloud coming over it. 

We were approaching Walpole 
when, very reluctantly, I said : 



"How far do you want to go? Isn't 
it time to turn back?" 

"Oh, Jack," she said, reproachfully, 
"do you want to go back? I don't. 
Aren't you having a perfectly lovely 
time? Can't we go on and on and on, 
and have luncheon somewhere and 
come back in the afternoon?" 

"Bobs," I said ecstatically, "you 
know I'd go to the end of the 
world and over it with you." (And 
strangely enough she didn't rebuke me, 
as I had secretly feared.) "Only your 
mother doesn't know where you are." 

"Telephone," she ordered, imperi- 

So the first chance I got I called 
up her mother, but without eliciting 
any response. Then I called up Pierre 
at the garage, but he was out. Then I 
called up my office to tell my father 
not to expect me, and he was out. 

"I couldn't get your mother or my 
father," I told Bobs, as I got into the 
machine again, "so now what do you 
say? Shall we go on and make a day 
of it or do you think you'd better go 

"Oh, it's so heavenly, let's go on. 
Mamma won't care anyway, and may- 
be we can call her up later." 

"All right," I said, as I threw in the 
speed clutch. "I tried to get your 
chauffeur at the garage — " 

"Pierre?" she asked, wonderingly. 

"Yes. So he wouldn't worry — " 

"Worry?" she questioned, perplex- 
edly. "Pierre worry about me?" 

"Well, no," I laughed, "not about 
you exactly. But about your mother's 

"My mother's car," she exclaimed ; 
then sitting up suddenly, she excitedly 
put her hand on my arm so as to cause 
the car to swerve dangerously. "Jack," 
she said, "this isn't mother's car. Do 
you mean to say — " 

"Don't do that, Bobs," I said. "Don't 
lose your nerve. It's dangerous. If this 
isn't your mother's car, whose is it?" 

"Isn't it your father's?" 

"My father's," I laughed, still un- 
suspicious of the facts. "Why, no 
indeed. I thought it was your 

"Jack Wolcott," she declared, with a 
frightened voice. "You've stolen 
somebody's car." 

"Great Guns !" I exclaimed, and al- 
most instinctively I slowed down. 

I thought rapidly for a few minutes. 
Whose car had I stolen? I tried to 
think of who were the possessors of 
Maxim cars. I couldn't remember. If 
it was some friend of mine I could 
easily explain and square myself. If 
not, it might be made very uncomfort- 
able to me and to the dear little girl at 
my side before things could be straight- 
ened out. We might be stopped any 
moment. Already the telegraph and 
telephone had probably served to notify 
the police of all towns. Here was a 
nice predicament. 

Then the great, golden idea came 
into my head, like a blessed inspiration. 
In a moment we were whizzing along, 
regardless of all speed regulations, and 
I mutely watching the road, with my 
teeth tightly clenched together. After 
about ten minutes of this silent speed- 
ing, a little, frightened voice spoke. 

"Jack, you're going at awful speed 
Where are we going? Aren't you go- 
ing to turn back?" 

"Not on your life," I said, with sav- 
age glee, and truly I felt like a primi- 
tive man. "We're going to get out 
of the little state of Massachusetts 
just as quick as this dear old space-an- 
nihilator will take us. We're going to 
get into Rhode Island, so as to post- 
pone arrest. And above all, Bobsy, my 
girl, we're heading for Providence, 
where we are going to get married just 
as quick as the law will do it." 

"Married!" she gasped. 

"Yep," I answered, tersely. "A mar- 
ried woman can't testify against her 

"You're running away with me?" 

"That's what," I shouted, wild with 
the intoxicating, glorious delight of 
a new-found primal masterfulness. 
"Same as I said I would last night." . 

On we sped. Several attempts were 
made to stop us, whether as motor 
thieves or speed-law violators, I did 
not know, and did not stop to enquire. 

Bobs had been very quiet. I looked 



around at her and caught a fleeting- 
glance of timid enquiry, and then her 
eyes dropped. I had to keep mine 
pretty closely glued to the road. 

"How about it, Bobsy?" I asked. 

"I don't see how I can help it," she 
answered, demurely, "when you go 
and steal a car and run off with me." 

We were nearing Providence by this 
time, and in a quiet bit of road, I 
slowed down. 

"Bobs," I asked, as I turned to her, 
"aren't you just a little bit glad? Can't 
you say you're glad, dear? If not, 
why I'll — " 

"Jack Wolcott," she replied, and 
there was a queer little catch in her 
voice, "if you dare to dream of backing 
out now, I'll never speak to you again." 

And then I had her in my arms and 
held her close to me, so that I could 
feel her heart beating against my own, 
and I looked down into those dear eyes 
and saw there what every man looks 
for once in the eyes of the woman he 
loves, and I guess what she saw in 
mine pleased and comforted her, for 
her eyes were shining with happy 
tears, and then I bent down and kissed 
her in the silence which we two alone 
could interpret. 

Presently we came back to earth and 
jogged on, but I was too glad and 
happy to care whether I was "pinched" 
or not. 

"I'm sorry I was so nasty last night, 
Bobs, dear," I said then. 

"I'm not," she replied. "It's a thou- 
sand times more delicious to be run 
off with like this than just to be asked 
and say yes in a ball-room or conser- 
vatory or something like that, and just 
get engaged like anybody else. And 
I think you're just perfectly fine." 

So what could I do but — well that's 
nobody's business but our own. 

"I wonder how Dad and your 
mother'll take it," I said presently. 

"Oh, they're sure to be nice, because 
— well, because — Oh, Jack, haven't 
you seen? — I think they've got a little 
romance of their own. And I think it 
would be just delightful if — " 

"Why, you can't mean that," I ex- 
claimed. "Why your mother is — " 

"No such thing,"' flashed Bobs, the 
loyal. "And even if she is, isn't she 
the loveliest, sweetest, dearest woman 
that ever lived?" 

"Except one," I assented. "And 
after all, the Dad's not so terribly old. 
Only forty-eight, and if it'll make him 
any happier, the dear old Dad, why, 
I'm willing." 

"So'm I," responded Bobs. "But 
they probably won't ask our permis- 

"Well, we'll give them a lead, any- 
way," I said. 

By this time we were into the city 
and before I would put the machine 
up we stopped at a jewelry store and 
I got a couple of rings, and then we 
went and the dearest little woman in 
the world was made my wife. I 
wasn't taking any chances, and got 
the knot tied hard and fast before I 
would expose myself at the garage. 
But there was no question raised, and 
after we had put the machine up we' 
went to a hotel for our belated lunch- 

We were nearly through the meal 
when who should come into the din- 
ing-room but Dad and Bobs' mother. 
They saw us at the same moment we 
saw them, and I thought they looked 
curiously confused and embarrassed, as 
well as astonished. They came to our 
table and we rose to greet them. Bobs 
and I were both a good deal rattled, 
too ; but I determined to put a good 
face on it, and own up all. Then all 
of us said the same thing, simulta- 

"Why, what are you doing here?" 

Dad cleared his throat. 

"Gertrude," he said to Bobs' mother, 
"We might as well explain and — er — 
tell the whole story now — er — as any 
other, — as — er — its got to be told some- 

The whole thing flashed into my 
mind at once. 

"You're married, Dad," I cried, 
seizing- him by the hand. "Isn't that 
great? Well, so are we. Now let's 
exchange blessings." 

"Well, I'll be da— I mean hanged," 
said Dad. and he stepped over to where! 


Bobs and her mother were weeping on 
each others necks, and took Bobs into 
his arms and kissed her and said : "I'm 
more glad, my dear, than I know how 
to say," and, not to be out-done, I did 
the same by my new mother, and then 
we all sat down again. Dad called for 
some more wine and everybody drank 
everybody else's health, and we were all 
happy as — oh, whatever you can think 
of that's the happiest in the world. 

And the dear old Dad looked really 
young and handsome, and it was plain 
to see that "Gertrude" thought so. 
And I commenced to jolly the blessed 
old chap and he came back at me and 
didn't lose any points. 

"We'd have been here ahead of you, 
you young rascal," he said, "if some 
infernal scoundrel hadn't stolen my 
new Maxim. I left it outside the Fon- 
tainbleau when I went up to get Gert 
— that is — er — your mother, and while 
I was up there — er — waiting for her to 
put on her hat, some rascally black- 
guard went off with it, and — " 

"Dad," I said, when his words caused 
the situation to dawn upon me, and 
almost bursting with suppressed 
laughter and relief, as I could see Bobs 
was, too, "it's bad enough for you to 

be such a gay Lothario at your time 
of life, but it's outrageous for you to 
call your son such names as those." 

"What," he exclaimed, the truth 
manifesting itself to him. "You young 
jackanapes — " 

"There you go again," I said, with 
an injured air. 

"Well, if that doesn't beat all," he 
laughed. "It's a wonder you're not in 
jail, for I put the police on the track 
at once. But I'll fix that all right by 
the 'phone just as soon as we've fin- 
ished eating. You nearly put us in a 
hole. But fortunately there was your 
mother's Maxim, and I got that and 
we came down in it; must have been 
right behind you all the way, although 
we didn't have quite the same incen- 
tive for speed. Ha, ha, ha ! I guess 
we'll have to go back together, so's I 
can bail you out if you get arrested. 
And I'll telephone up to the Touraine 
and order a wedding supper. And, my 
boy," he added, with a good deal of 
feeling, "I guess you and I and these 
two dear women owe our happiness 
this day to the Maxim, so here's a last 
toast : Here's to our wives and our 
cars. When in trouble or doubt we'll 
rely on those. It's a Maxim to trust." 



I know a lane in these midsummer days 
Whose edge is thicketed with clear, cool green 
Of elder, fern and vines of lowly mien, 
That, wild and sweet, run unmolested ways 
To frame the verdurous bowers, where ablaze 
In witching scarlet the wood-lilies lean ; — 
Gay gypsies, lending all the sylvan scene 
A piquancy no frailer bloom essays. 

Be lavish of your tents, O leafy lane ! 

And, wood-birds, pipe your merriest roundelay ! 

That these blithe transients of the summer noon 

May be persuaded longer to remain ; 

For surely from ,the green that skirts the way 

We miss their lauofhine faces all too soon. 

The Soul of Things 


IN his latest play, which bears the 
title of "Blue Bird," Maeterlink 
tells us of a boy to whom an old 
fairy gave a green hat with a diamond 
ornament, and such was the power of 
the diamond, that wherever he turned, 
the soul of things was made visible. 
Inanimate things, as well as animals, 
became articulate. The dog, faithful, 
intimate, and humorous ; the cat, trai- 
torous, malicious, and satirical. Water 
takes the form of a weeping girl ; fire 
springs from the earth in red and yel- 
low lights ; milk is characteristically 
timid; sugar excessively sweet; while 
light becomes an inquisitive image! 

That a playful fancy should thus % 
translate the phenomena of Nature, and 
find tongues in trees, books in the 
running brooks, and sermons in stones, 
— aye, see spirits, demons and angels 
in physical processes and the daily 
course of events, is so traditional that 
it excites no wonder; and yet, we 
realize every day that to see the soul 
of things in this commonplace is far 
from being the usual experience of 
men. It is quite true, that even in this 
utilitarian age, man has not entirely 
lost what Bishop Wescott so aptly 
calls "the ennobling faculty of wonder." 
Earth, air and light still teem with 
mysteries which baffle the penetration 
and research of science and philosophy, 
and the things we do not know and 
do not comprehend are still greater in 
number than the things we understand. 
Nevertheless, there are places upon 
the face of the earth which not only 
fill us with interest and admiration, but 
call upon us to pause and ponder and 
look upon the soul which lies behind 
the things we see. The dead and 

buried past rises and beckons to us, and 
will not let us go, until we have listened 
to her story. Such a spot is Oxford — 
City and University — holding by gen- 
eral consent a position which is unique 
among all the cities and the universi- 
ties of the world. Perhaps no one has 
characterized the charm of Oxford 
more forcibly or succinctly than the 
eminent Dr. Fairbairn, late Principal 
of Mansfield College, — an institution 
which is new among the many posses- 
sions of the historic town. "You can 
leave London," says he, "and in sev- 
enty minutes step out into what seems 
like a town of the Middle Ages, or the 
land of the lotus-eaters, where it is 
always afternoon. Men go into the 
college gardens and they feel the soft 
turf and note its beauty, and they think 
of the centuries that have gone to the 
making of the turf, and the many more 
to the making of the place. Men come 
to see a university and what they find 
is a City of Colleges. The colleges 
constitute the university, but they did 
not create it; for long before any col- 
lege was, the university existed. Who 
made it, no one can tell; in a sense it 
never was made, it only grew; and 
its roots go down into a past so remote 
that men call it mythical." 

And yet, in spite of the dignity and 
glory of the university, the town per- 
sistently refuses to take a second on 
even a subordinate place in historical' 
interest. In the early part of the tenth' 
century Oxford held its own in namej 
and importance. The Anglo-Saxonj 
Chronicle tells us that in the year nine 
hundred and twelve, "King Edwardl 
took to himself Lundenbyrg (London) 
and Oxnaford and all the lands that! 



were obedient thereto." From the fact 
that it lay on the border of Mercia and 
Wessex, holding the communication by 
river from London and guarding the 
great main roads, north to south and 
east to west, which still cross each 

it was ever a Roman station does not 
appear, inasmuch as the Roman roads 
pass it at considerable distance, but a 
settlement made by the Britons was 
destroyed by the Saxons and rebuilt by 
Vortigern about the end of the fifth 

■ -■v.;- 

The Martyrs' memorial, Oxford 

other at Carfax, its topographical posi- 
tion gave it strategic importance. As 
may be readily guessed, it owes its 
name to the fact that near its site, the 
fine gravel bed of the upper Thames 
presented a safe ford for oxen. That 

century. Before the Norman conquest 
the city erected a chain of fortifications 
which enabled it to resist the incursions 
of the Danes, and even in these early 
days, Oxford was the meeting-place of 
the Gemote, or Great Council of the 


The Quadrangle, Corpus Christi col- 
lege, Oxford 

nation, and here the illustrious Harold 
Harefoot was crowned. It was at 
Carfax, in the churchyard of St. Mar- 
tin's, that the early Town Councils 
were conducted, under the name of 
Portmanninotes. For centuries this- 
spot was the very centre of corporate 
life, and in medieval times, was con- 
spicuous as the rallying-point of the 
citizens in the frequent, and sometimes 
the sanguinary, conflicts between town 
and town. The very hero of chivalry 
and romance, Richard Coeur de Lion, 
was born in the Royal Palace of Beau- 
mont, built by Henry I., and from 
which the present Beaumont Street 
was named. Here fair Queen Eleanor 
dispensed most gracious favor and 
bounty from the palace where she 
often resided, and at the foot of this 
famous street stands Worcester Col- 
lege, on the site of Gloucester Hall, a 
thirteenth century construction, where 
lay the body of the beautiful Amy 

Robsart, after her unfortunate and un- 
timely death. 

It was in the reign of Henry III. that 
the city walls, following the lines of 
the old fortifications designated in 
Domesday Book, were constructed, and 
the grounds of New College show to- 
day a fragment of those walls which 
holds an irresistible fascination for 
every student who visits the quaint and 
venerable city. This fragment of 
ancient masonry forms the boundary 
line of the gardens of New College, — 
the remains only of a formerly strong, 
perhaps in that day invincible, fortifi- 
cation against the inroads of marau- 
ders, — but gaze upon it — think upon it 
— recall the hands and the minds which 
built and designed it, and if you are 
blessed with one spark of imagination, 
or with one emotion of reverence, you 
will be transported in thought across 
centuries of history, and will live for 
a while in a past which is hoary with 
age. The university church, which is 
also the parish church of St. Mary-the- 
Virgin, not only charms the beholder 
with its unique and picturesque beauty, 
but offers a rich mine of interest to 
the historian and the antiquarian. In 
the seventeenth century the curious 
porch, with its image of the Virgin, 
was wrought, under the influence of 
Laud, who suffered a martyr's death. 
Here in the fourteenth century the 
brave and conscientious Wycliffe boldly 
proclaimed the spiritual freedom of 
mankind. In this church, in the year 
1554, Ridley and Latimer were cited 
for trial and condemned to martyr- 
dom, and within these walls in the 
year 1556, Archbishop Cranmer made 
his final and pathetic address before 
going to his death by fire. Here were 
preached the dogmas, the tenets, the 
hopes of various schools of thought and 
learning through many generations, 
and here men dared to speak what they 
believed to be true, with the full 
knowledge that the reward of such 
speech would be a speedy and an aw- 
ful death. 

Yet the well-trodden street and the 
common road are as eloquent of won- 
drous deeds and sublime fortitude as 


3 ( .) 

any monumental pile. Aye, the very 
stones in the pathways cry out and 
will not hold their peace. O ye who 
hasten and bustle in and out of garden 
and college, — who hurry and jostle 
each other upon the highways in your 
laudable desire to accomplish as much 
of sight-seeing in one morning as is 
possible for the busy man, — who pass 
by, with careless indifference, the spots 
which are sacred landmarks in the 
development and civilization of hu- 
manity and the progress of the world, — 
who crowd into a few hours that which 

bulwarks, which have withstood full 
many an onslaught, and to remember 
her honorable sons, who have made her 
one of the most renowned cities of 
history. Mr. Marriott speaks without 
partiality and exaggeration in the 
memorable words : "As frontier town, 
as venerated shrine, as fortified burgh, 
as gemote place both before and after 
the Conquest, as Norman fortress, as 
royal residence, as the seat of Priory 
and Abbey, as a famous market and 
possessor of a Merchant Guild, — 
Oxford was a famous city before it was 

The Sir Joshua Reynolds windows, New cou,EGE, OxEord 

months could not suffice, — is it nothing 
to you that men have suffered and 
died for the blessing, the privilege, 
aye, the right, which is to you to-day 
as free as the air you breathe, and as 
broad as the common light of day ! 
Yours, in sooth, without the asking, — 
yours for all time and indeed for all 
eternity. The things you see are but 
the worn and cast-off vestments of 
that soul which once dwelt within 
them, and you have not learned the 
lesson they offer to you, until you have 
felt the throbbings of that great soul 
which alone renders them worthy. As 
its present Chancellor, Lord Curzon, 
aptly names it, "this ancient and im- 
mortal place," — calls upon you to con- 
sider her ways, and mark well her 

the home of a still more famous uni- 

It is not difficult to realize the 
numerous and imperative demands 
which are made upon the brain and the 
heart of the ambitious student in this 
busy and clamorous twentieth century. 
Insistent and importunate, who shall 
be able to resist them? The present 
calls us with a thousand voices, and 
reaches out to us ten thousand hands. 
Let the dead past bury its dead, — the 
present only is ours, and we must labor 
in earnest and unceasingly if we would 
possess the future ! Aye, but it is the 
past which* both foretells and inter- 
prets the future, and whoso scorns the 
past, shall comprehend little of that 
which shall be. The student who re- 



fuses to hear and heed the lesson to be 
read in the things that were, who finds 
not the soul in the things which have 
been, shall hardly discern the true teach- 
ing of that which is to come. The white 
cross which lies upon the great high- 
way of Broad Street, in the famous old 
university town, calls aloud to every 
passer-by to mark the wondrous deed 
which still sheds its light throughout 
a naughty world. The very words of 
the martyr Latimer are ringing in the 
air if we will but listen: "Be of good 
courage, Master Ridley, and play the 
man; for this day we shall light a 
candle in England which shall never 
be put out! 5 ' 

To-day this candle shines for you, 
O ye toilers in the living present, and 
how clear, how bright is its flame ! By 
its unfailing light how many a mystery 
ye shall read and how many a new 
candle shall be kindled until the whole 
world shall be full of light ! Great 
ones have died that the soul of things 
might be made visible to you, and they 
have not died in vain if ye are but 
willing to see. Already across the 
ocean, full many a flame, lit at this 
venerable shrine, is burning with ever- 
increasing light. As Marie Corelli, the 
well-known novelist, says : "You may 
call it a romantic notion perhaps, but I 
should like to think that the house of 
John Harvard's mother was a link 
with John Harvard's university, and a 
sign of friendship between the two na- 
tions." It was from Cambridge, on the 
banks of the beautiful Cam, that John 
Harvard, through the benevolent 
patronage of Mildmay, himself a Cam- 
bridge man, drew his inspiration, and 
from that reverend university which 
makes the town of Cambridge famous, 
he acquired a love of learning and the 
power to see and feel the soul of things, 
and doubtless by its spirit was incited 
to plant in the Cambridge of the new 
world the scion which was to grow 
into the noble tree which now stands 
upon the shores of the Charles. 

The author of the Declaration of In- 
dependence, Thomas Jefferson, was not 
slow to perceive the soul of things 
made manifest by the great universities 

of the old world. In them and by the 
light they shed, he read the lesson 
which pointed the way to the true 
greatness of a nation. He realized 
that mere statistics of material pos- 
sessions neither constitute a people's 
wealth nor reveal the nature of a 
people's inner life. In a nation as in 
the individual, it is the being rather 
than the having which goes to the 
formation of character and power as 
the result of character. Hence, the 
great statesman felt as much pride in 
the establishment of the university of 
Virginia as he did in the writing of the 
Declaration of Independence with 
which his name and fame are forever 
associated. In death as in life its weal 
'was one of the dearest desires of his 
heart, for in its prosperity he saw the 
well-being of Virginia and of the whole 
nation, and to-day in the universities of 
Germany, — institutions which Jeffer- 
son so profoundly admired — it is not 
unusual to hear the noble seat of learn- 
ing which is the pride of Virginia re- 
ferred to as a sister university of which 
Germany is proud. 

From another state in New England, 
the University of Yale calls upon the 
citizens of the Great Republic to see 
the soul of things, rather than material 
advantage — to realize the things which 
make a nation truly great, and east 
and west, and north and south, not only 
in Europe, but in this the new world, 
behold how many a light a little 
candle has kindled ! 

Yet picturesqueness is so deeply in- 
grained into every view of the ancient 
city of Oxford, that the relentless hand 
of Time seems unable to destroy it. 
Lo, imagination comes at once to the 
rescue of college and street and garden, 
with such insistent and with such be- 
guiling voice, that the stranger who 
gazes upon them is laid under a spell 
which all the utilitarianism- of modern- 
ty cannot break. It is the voice of the 
wonderful Past, which will be heard 
over and above the clamorous tones 
of the Present. Pie can but harken to 
the bells of St. Mary's and of Carfax 
clanging the good tidings that the 
Spanish Armada had gone down be- 




fore the might of Elizabeth's fleet, — 
he must needs hear the shouts of town 
and gown, who have forgotten their 
own quarrels in one common rejoic- 
ing and clap hands and toss caps as 
they drink the health of good Queen 
Bess. As he stands upon High Street 
and beholds as Wordsworth wrote of 
it : "The stream like windings of that 
glorious street," he can almost see be- 
fore him the pathetic figure of Charles 
I. who refuses to forget that he is king 
by a right divine. Scarcely four hun- 

of the past will be seen in the Oxford 
of the present, in spite of the ravages 
and amendments of time. A poet of 
the olden days, even in these latter 
days of railways and automobiles 
sings in our ears the lines so well 
known and loved in his generation : 

"Trust me, Plantagent, these Oxford 
Are richly seated by the river-side : 
The mountains full of fat and fallow 


dred yards away Ridley and Latimer 
died for the truth of the Eternal God, 
and lit the candle which has flooded 
the world with light ! The towers of 
Merton and of Christ Church, — the 
spires of All Saints and the great dome 
of the Radclifle Library are calling 
and telling the wondrous deeds of 
yore. The long line of the green- 
muffled hills of Cumnor and the dark 
wooded heights of Wytham are- still 
beautiful with the charm of romance, 
and still eloquent of the deeds and sor- 
rows of hero and heroine. The Oxford 

The battling pastures lade with kine 

and flocks, 
The town gorgeous with high-built 

And scholars seemly in their grave 

Learned in searching principles of 


The soul of things is immortal, mani- 
festing itself to all who have the eyes 
to see. The spirits of the great ones 
who have lived and labored for the 
welfare of mankind are truly the presid- 



ing geniuses of the venerable city and 
colleges. What boots it that King 
Alfred may not have founded Diver- 
sity College, — munificence which the 
bygone ages loved to believe was his? 
What if this belief, once so fondly 
cherished, be an exploded myth? One 
needs not that belief to cherish faith in 
his greatness, nor, indeed, to look 
upon King Alfred's jewel, which is 
exhibited in the new Ashmolean Mu- 
seum, to realize that his genius, so to 
speak, still presides over all and every- 
thing which helps to make the great- 
ness of Oxford. There was that in 
the character of King Alfred the Great 
which shall always make itself felt 
throughout England. His life and his 
words taught the English people to 
discern the soul of things, and not with- 
out reason was he called England's 
Darling, who endured the slings and 
arrows of misfortune with a fortitude 
which was sublime, and saw the bow 
of promise behind clouds which were 
black with gloom and threatening. It 
is indeed wonderful how the mind of 
the commonplace visitor to the city 
of colleges loves to revert to the life 
and virtues of the great Saxon king, 
and would fain accept the traditions 
which would make him the vital breath 
of all good and sound learning. Was 
it not he, forsooth, who invited scholars 
of foreign countries to come to Eng- 
land? Can one think of Werfrith, 
bishop of Worcester, of Ethelstan and 
Werwulf, of Mercia, of Plegmund and 
Asser and Grimbald without remem- 
bering the fact that they were called 
the scholars of King Alfred the Great ! 
One can hardly forget how the poet 
Shelley was impressed with the atmo- 
sphere of Oxford, and how, like a tonic, 
it acted upon hfs own spirit. Its water 
and its wood were to him an unfailing 
source of joy. Although his stay in 
the great seat of learning was com- 
paratively short and his expulsion as 
humiliating as it was unjust, — a cruelty 
under which his soul never ceased to 
writhe, — he never denied or forgot the 
charm which the revered spot held for 
him and often repeated the lines writ- 
ten in the last half of the sixteenth 

century by a poet as gentle as he was 
quaint — Ralph Aggas : 

Ancient Oxford ! noble nurse of skill ! 
A citie seated riche in everythinge : 
Girt with woode and water. 

In his daily walks by stream and 
through the paths of garden and wood, 
he would seize his companion by the 
arm and burst forth into rapturous 
admiration: "What city is so fair as 
Oxford? What gardens so enchant- 
ing? What nightingales ever poured 
forth such song?" Like Keats, he 
often declared High Street to be the 
finest street in Europe, and the en- 
trance to the city over Magdalen 
Bridge unsurpassed in beauty by any 
highway in the world. How bitterly 
he deplored his departure none knew 
or appreciated except his most intimate 
friends. The whirligig of Time has 
indeed brought in its revenge, we are 
compelled to realize when we gaze 
upon the beautiful monument of the 
drowned poet, which now occupies a 
niche in University College, not re- 
mote from the apartment in which he 
lived while he was a student in the 
same college. How fair it is ! How 
vividly the sight of it recalls his pas- 
sionate love of Oxford's rivers and 
waterways, and how prophetic seems 
the rebuke of his friend, who, warning 
him against his dangerous and too fre- 
quent adventures," earnestly said to 
him : "Shelley, some day you will be 
a victim of the water you love so 
much !" 

Not far from this shrine, which is 
visited every year by more than 
twenty thousand tourists, is the cham- 
ber in which he reviled the cruel and 
unjust mandate which drove him from 
the place he loved above all others. 
The friend who shared his expulsion 
from the university describes him as 
sitting with bowed head, and hands 
over his face, exclaiming in very 
a^ony of soul: "Expelled! Expelled! 
Think of it. Expelled!" In vain did 
this friend seek to calm his perturbed 
spirit, and not until they were well on 
their way to London was the unhappy 




victim of prejudice and injustice won 
over to a calm acceptance of his fate. 
From every part of the world, — the 
natives of India, Arabia, and Egypt, as 
well as the scholars and artists of 
Europe, — come those who love the 
poetry and name of Shelley. As they 
gaze upon it, the cold marble seems to 
leap into life, and they can almost 
hear from the lips of the statue those 
lines of Shakespeare which were so 
often on the lips of the poet: 

But doth suffer a sea-change 
Into something rich and strange." 

vision beholds the soul of things. The 
hated, rejected and disowned is now 
restored to his own — the expelled and 
contemned, cordially welcomed with 
eager and loving hands. 

It was Shelley who thought, as all 
admit now, that no approach to Oxford 
was comparable to the old coach road 
from London, by way of Henley over 
Magdalen Bridge, which itself is a 
thing of beauty. Railways and rail- 
way stations are sadly destructive of 
the picturesque, and the modern 
visitor was wont to lose much of the 
charm of the grand old city by taking 
the train rather than the coach, but 

High street, Oxford 

To-day the visitor to the world- 
amous Bodleian Library is requested 
o examine the Shelley Memorials, — 
the disjecta membra" of manuscripts 
nd personal belongings of the poet, 
>estowed, as was the monument, by 
vlrs. Shelley. The delicate, literary 
andwriting is at once recognizable by 
11 who have seen the fac-simile. The 
resence of those memorials, now es- 
eemed so precious and exhibited under 

glass case, is indisputable proof of 
lie clearness with which the modern 

history loves to repeat itself, and in 
these latter days, the automobile is 
conveying the sight-seer over the same 
road so much traveled in the coaching 
days of yore. No city- in the world 
has so beautiful an entrance as Oxford, 
over Magdalen Bridge by the noble 
tower and the famous college which 
King James was accustomed to speak 
of as "the most absolute building in the 
city," and which the historian Anthony 
A. Wood called "the most noble and 
rich structure in the learned world." 



The first view of the many towers 
and spires bursts upon the beholder 
like a vision of enchantment, and he 
is almost seized with the conviction 
that nowhere in all the world can river- 
banks seem so fair or gardens so fit 
for nightingales, and in no other land 
can one see a town so rich in court and 
tower! Surely the face of the earth 
does not show such a union of beauti- 
ful streams-! The Isis, the Upper 
River and the Cherwell combine to 
make good the ancient city. By dis- 
tinction, the Isis is commonly called 
"The River," and many a mood she 
takes through the winter and summer, 
but never one which does not possess 
a charm for the students who have 
learned to love her; hence it was but 
natural that Keats should think with 
Shelley concerning the plenitude of 
beauty which belongs to this historic 
seat of learning. It could not be that 
these kindred spirits should differ in 
opinion, as we find in the hearty and 
generous confession made by Keats in 
his letters : "This Oxford I cannot 
doubt is the finest city in the world, 
— it is full of old Gothic buildings, 
spires, towers, quadrangles, cloisters, 
and groves, and is surrounded with 
more clear streams than ever I saw 
together." Besides the particular in- 
terest which perforce attaches to such 
a great variety of architecture, there 
is a gentle and puissant influence 
which nothing can escape, harmonizing 
Gothic and Norman and Modern in 
such a way that the tout ensemble can be 
characterized only as Oxford Archi- 
tecture. History, romance, learning 

adventure, and peace and war speak 
to us from road and garden and church 
and pinnacle, not only of hero and 
heroine — not only of martyr and 
saint, but of the soul of things which 
more and more reveals itself to every 
succeeding generation. The radiant 
glass, which repeats the story of the 
past, holds eye and heart by an ir- 
resistible spell, and yet the wonderful 
window designed by Sir Joshua Rey- 
nolds is scarcely more eloquent or more 
beautiful than the work of Burne-Jones 
in Manchester College, where the 
figures seem to leap into life and fill the 
whole chapel with exquisite color. The 
chapel of Keble College, too recent 
to possess the charm which antiquity 
bestows, is a marvel of beauty, adjust- 
ing itself, so to speak, to its noble en- 
vironage in fresco, mosaic, and reredos. 
He, for whom it is named, knew and 
loved the ancient seat of learning as 
few loved it, and felt as few could 
feel the soul of things in all its glori- 
ous history. Lesson and phophecy he 
read in every monument and in none 
more than in the Martyrs' Memorial, 
which he voices in the words : 

"Their God was with them and the 

Of their death-fires still lights the 

land to truth 
To show that might is in a martyr's ; 

Read and rejoice : yet humbly, for our ! 

Is perilous like theirs, for death or 



Gathering Shadows 


O glories of the sunset ! 

lights across the sea ! 

In the long, long, sad twilight, 
When you have gone from me, 
And like a lost child in the 

1 dream of bird and tree, — 

In the long, long, sad twilight, 
How strange, how strange 
'twill be ! 

O gold of morn and evening! 
O silver sheen of night ! 
When the dark veil of shadows 
Shall wrap you from my sight, 
The memory of your beauty 
Shall cheer the lengthened 

That hides the dear, familiar 

In my close-curtained room. 

Then in my spirit's vision, 
Each blade and bud and tree, 
And every gentle, tender smile 
That used to gladden me, 
Perchance in that long twilight 
May bloom and bless me still, 
Fadeless and tender always, 
Safe from all change and chill. 

O glories of the sunset ! 
O faces loved so well ! 
These sightless eyes shall keep you 
By that most wondrous spell 
Of Love that bears, uplifting 
The broken wing's last flight, 
And gives blind eyes fair visions 
Through the long, weary night ! 



Timely Motor -world topics by William D. Soliier, George L. Ellsworth, W. Mason Turner, 
J. II. MacAlman, and Le Boy Cook 



Member Massachusetts Highway Commission 

EVERYONE admits that the mo- 
tor vehicle has come to stay. Its 
importance is constantly in- 
creasing; its use is developing large 
sections of country, not only near 
our cities, but in rural communities — 
in territory that heretofore has been 
inaccessible. Its rubber tires, speed 
and the tractive force it exerts on the 
roads are forcing road engineers 
throughout the world to seek methods 
of construction which will withstand 
this traffic. 

Not only is the use of the automobile 
increasing as a passenger carrier, but 
the use of the motor truck and the 
long-distance motor express wagon, 
with their heavy loads and solid tires, 
is raising new problems in road' build- 
ing, which must be met and solved in 
the near future if we are to maintain 
good roads. 

The increasing importance of the au- 
tomobile in its relation to road con- 
struction and maintenance is shown by 
the fact that in London in 1904 there 
were 51,000 motor vehicles registered, 
and in 1907 there were nearly 124,000. 

In 1903 only 3000 automobiles were 
registered in Massachusetts, in 1906 
6500, and in 1909 24,000. 

The average increased cost of main- 
tenance in the seven counties which ad- 
join London, from 1901 to 1907, was 
48 per cent. On some of the roads the 
increased maintenance cost was 70 per 

In Massachusetts, and probably in 

all the New England States, the same 
conditions exist. 

The weight and power of automo- 
biles are constantly increasing. In 1903 
only 14 per cent, of the automobiles 
registered in Massachusetts were over 
10 horse-power, and in 1910 probably 
more than 50 per cent, are over 20 

The importance of the automobile 
and its relation to the problem of road 
construction and maintenance is clearly 
shown by a traffic census which was 
taken by the Massachusetts Highway 
Commission in 1909 for fourteen hours a 
day every day for one week in August 
and one week in October, at 240 stations 
located on state highways throughout 
the Commonwealth. The average daily 
traffic at all stations is shown below: 


Horse-drawn vehicles — 

August October 

Census Census 

Light 19,622 16,456 

Heavy 17,969 i7>9°7 

Totals 37,591 ^4423 

Automobiles — 

Runabouts 5,922 3,995 

Touring cars 21,387 I4>5 X 4 

Totals 27,309 18,509 

Total vehicles of all 

kinds 64,900 52,952 

Percentage horse-drawn 58 65 

Percentage automobiles 42 35 



Coi,onei, William D. Sohier 

This shows an average traffic at all 
stations of 274 vehicles per day in 
August, of which 115 were automo- 
biles, and in October 221 vehicles per 
day, of which jj were automobiles. 

While the average automobile traffic 
on the state highways varied from 42 
per cent, in August to 35 per cent, in 
October, on the main routes, especially 
near the large cities, the automobile 
traffic was much greater. 

For instance, at the Saugus River 
bridge, out of a total of 1300 vehicles 
per day in August, 1 177, or 90 per cent., 
were automobiles, and out of a total 
of 715 vehicles in October, 640, or 90 
per cent., were automobiles. 

On the state highway in Beverly, out 
of a total of 161 1 vehicles per day in 
August, 976, or 61 per cent., were au- 
tomobiles, and out of 1475 in October, 
611, or 42 per cent., were automobiles. 



The same was true at other stations 
where counts were made. For in- 
stance, on the Metropolitan Parkway 
in Milton, 53 per cent, of all travel was 
automobiles, and in Somerville 66 per 
cent. ; on Commonwealth avenue, Bos- 
ton, 84 per cent, was automobiles in 
August and 74 per cent, in October ; at 
Jamaica Plain, 70 per cent, in August 
and 69 per cent, in October. 

The number of automobiles per day 
on Commonwealth avenue was in ex- 
cess of 2000. 

In this connection it is interesting to 
note that these main highways and 
parkways near Boston have traffic that 
is comparable with the traffic on some 
of the main routes out of London. For 
instance, on the main trunk road from 
Watford to London the traffic averaged 
1254 vehicles per day, which is about 
the same as the traffic on the state 
highway in Beverly, and less than half 
the traffic on Commonwealth avenue, 
in the city of Boston. 

This large amount of automobile 
travel has a very destructive effect on 
our macadam roads. In Massachusetts, 
however, the automobile owner is pay- 
ing a substantial sum of money for reg- 
istration fees, and this money is all 
used for repairing state highways. It 
is estimated that in 1910 the fees will 
probably amount to about one-half the 
money it is necessary to spend for 
maintenance of the 800 miles of state 

This traffic does, however, require 
new methods of construction and main- 
tenance. The rubber tires and their 
tractive force tend to ravel the mac- 
adam roads and to suck off the binder. 

The roads must be adapted to this new 
mode of travel. 

Various methods have been tried to 
keep the surface of the roads from be- 
ing torn up. On old roads this has 
usually been done by treating the sur- 
face with oil, tar or some dust-layer. In 
the building of new roads some bitu- 
minous binder has been used. This has 
either been spread upon the top of the 
stones, or the stones have been coated 
with the material before being spread 
upon the road. 

It is possible that some entirely new 
materials and new methods of con- 
structing roads will be discovered 

Any method that is used will un- 
doubtedly increase the cost of con- 
struction and maintenance in the first 
instance, at any rate; but it may be 
found that the use of such binders re- 
sults in longer life for the road, and a 
consequent decreased yearly mainte- 
nance cost. 

It certainly seems probable that the 
use of these binders and dust-layers, 
which are made absolutely necessary 
by the large amount of automobile 
travel, will result in making more and 
more miles of road dustless and con- 
ditions more comfortable for the other 
users of the highways, as well as the 
people who dwell upon the roadsides. 
It is probable also that, while the auto- 
mobile will undoubtedly, for the time 
being at least, increase the cost of road 
building, the influence of automobile 
owners will lead to a great demand for 
better roads and better methods of con- 
struction, as did the bicycle, and will 
result in lasting good to the commu- 
nity, as a whole. 

The Automobile and The Law 


Assistant General Counsel, Automobile Legal Association 

DESPITE the comparative nov- 
elty of the automobile as a 
means of transportation upon 
the public highways, it has already 
produced a far-reaching influence not 
only upon commerce and industry, but 
also upon legislation. Only a few 
states have failed to enact a motor 
vehicle law of some kind. In all the 
other states the legislative enactments 
have been constantly receiving access- 
sions until there is now a vast accumu- 
lation of statutory law governing the 
use and operation of the twentieth 
entury conveyance. 

Starting with few restrictions less 
han a decade ago, the regulation of 
the automobile has steadily increased 
[until it now seems that the highest 
point has been reached by our law- 
making bodies in the control over the 
subject. It is but natural that, owing 
:o the great mobility and high power 
)f the automobile, considerations of 
public safety should have prompted 
md necessitated the passage of laws 
-egulating its speed and requiring the 
quipment of brakes and signal de- 
ices, together with adequate means of 
dentification, such as number plates, 
icenses, and registration. 

The enormous increase in motor 
raffic has been marked by a more ex- 
ensive notice from the courts. Ques- 
ions concerning the rights and lia- 
ilities of automobilists have con- 
tantly arisen, and a solution of these 
ias been frequently sought by resort 
the judicial tribunals. Many of 
hese suits have reached the courts of 
ast resort, and in consequence the re- 
>orted cases are fast becoming rich in 
utomobile law. The courts have al- 
eady decided many "questions of 

vital importance; but, strange as it 
may seem to the layman, the decisions, 
almost without exception, have called 
for the application of long-established 
principles and rules of law — thanks to 
the great adaptability of that immense 
legal code, known as the common law. 
Thus the frequent and numerous ques- 
tions affecting the liability of owners 
for the acts of chauffeurs, the status of 
the public garage, the rights and liabili- 
ties attaching to the keeper of a garage 
and the status of the motorist as a 
traveler upon the public highways 
have been readily referable to the old 
English common law as adopted and 
followed in the United States. 

The status of the automobile as a 
means of locomotion on the public 
highways has been held by all the 
courts before which the question has 
arisen to be the same as that of any 
other mode of transportation and 
travel. Priority of use of the highway 
by one means of transportation can- 
not be exclusive of later and im- 
proved methods of transportation even 
though inconvenience may result to 
the earlier modes of travel. The reason 
is obvious. Inasmuch as the highway 
is established for the general benefit of 
passage and travel, its use must be ex- 
tended to meet the modern means and 
improved methods of locomotion, the 
means of which, it cannot be assumed, 
will be the same from age to age with 
the growth of civilization. 

But perhaps the most striking point 
of special application to the motor 
vehicle and its operation yet announced 
by the courts is that the automobile is 
not necessarily and inherently a dan- 
gerous machine. In the language of 
one court : "It is no more dangerous 




George L. Eu.s worth 

per se than a team of horses and a 
carriage, or a gun, or a sail-boat, or 
a motor-launch." It is not, therefore, 
to be classed with combustibles, ex- 
plosives, inflammable substances, vici- 
ous animals, and the like. 

This judicial announcement should 
be of much interest and significance to 
the layman, inasmuch as it tends to 
correct the common but mistaken 
view that the automobile is a machine 
the operation of which upon the public 

streets and highways is necessaril) 
dangerous. The soundness of this 
judicial view must be admitted wher' 
the expedition and facility with which' 
the motor carriage may be stopped! 
controlled and guided, together witl 
its unlimited sphere of action, are conj 
sidered. Obviously it is the persona; 
element in motoring rather than thjj 
nature of the machine which tends t< 
make motoring hazardous. 

This decision also means much t<| 



the automobilist. It justly removes 
him from the application of the ex- 
treme doctrine rendering a master re- 
sponsible for the unauthorized acts of 
his servant to whose management the 
custody and control of a dangerous 
appliance or agency is entrusted. 

Although the automobile has been 
in use on our highways for scarcely 
more than a decade, certain tendencies 
in legislation can be seen out of the 
great mass of statutory law that has 
accumulated. There is the movement 
to have enacted uniform laws in the 
various states as evidenced by the joint 
request of the Governors of the New 
England States of less than two years 
ago to have adopted a uniform motor 
vehicle law in these states. 

While exactly uniform motor vehicle 
laws among the several states seems 
impossible owing to the variety of con- 
ditions obtaining in the different juris- 
dictions, much can be accomplished in 
this direction to facilitate interstate 
motoring and commercial travel. This 
suggests the much-mooted question of 
Federal control over interstate motor- 
ing, which promises to reach solution 
in the near future. There is no doubt 
that much of the difficulty now result- 
ing from the widely differing state pro- 
visions concerning registration would 
be remedied by the enactment of a 
Federal registration law. 

Another tendency manifested by re- 
cent state legislation is the abolition 
of arbitrary speed limits for motor 
j vehicles. When the public recognize 
(the fact already adjudicated by the 
courts that the automobile is not neces- 
sarily dangerous and that danger in 
most cases to which the public safety 
may be exposed arises from the per- 
sonal part played in motoring, the 
necessity for absolutely fixed limits on 
speed will disappear. The primary 

object of speed regulation is to render 
the highways safe to the traveling 
public by the prevention of dangerous 
driving. The test of dangerous opera- 
tion should not be confined to the rate 
of speed, since even a very low rate of 
speed maintained by a careless or un- 
experienced driver might be hazardous. 
The determining test should be the 
surrounding circumstances of the case, 
including the condition, use and 
character of the highway and the 
traffic actually at the time, or which 
the operator might reasonably expect 
to be on the highway. Such a rule or 
standard is both logical and consistent 
with the spirit of our laws in general, 
since it imposes the duty upon the 
motorist to act at all times as a reason- 
able person. 

While at first there was unfortu- 
nately a manifest tendency on the part 
of the courts to reflect the transient 
public sentiment against the motorist, 
there seems now to be a growing dis- 
position on the part of the courts to 
reflect rather the calmer public judg- 
ment uninfluenced by any local or tem- 
porary agitation in the community re- 
sulting from some accident. The ten- 
dency is to place the automobilist on a 
plane of equality with other users of 
the highway. 

The spirit of equality and fairness 
may be fostered in the future by a 
larger measure of co-operation between 
the motorist and the state in the solu- 
tion of all those problems which 
might affect the manufacture, con- 
struction, and use of the motor vehicle. 
In this way we expect those wise and 
sensible laws which will secure the 
greatest benefit to all the public, and 
leave untrammeled the expanding field 
and influence of the horseless carriage 
as one of the great civilizing agencies 
of the twentieth century. 

The Car of To-Day 


"V X THEN we look back ten or 
\f \/ eleven years, the time when 

T T automobiles were called 
"horseless carriages," and compare that 
product to the cars of to-day, what 
do we find? We find that the average 
motor car now on the market is almost 
as far advanced over its early prede- 
cessor as the crude type of machine 
was in advance of the horse-drawn ve- 
hicle. In those days we sold automo- 
biles by comparing them to horses — in 
many instances the purchasers were 
often compelled to send for a horse and 
drag the machine home. It is a rare 
sight nowadays to see a car hung up 
on the wayside except it be for tire 
troubles, and we find very little of that 
to contend with in modern motor cars. 

As an illustration I will refer to a 
trip I made last summer from Boston 
to Lake Sunapee, N. H., and return, the 
same day, a distance of some two hun- 
dred and fifty miles. I took with me 
six passengers and brought back three. 
The only extra tire equipment were 
two spare inner tubes. Fortunately, I 
had no occasion to use them, as I dis- 
covered that I had forgotten the keys 
to my tool box, which contained the 
tire-pump and jack; but it only goes to 
show how we have improved in this 
important detail and have also elim- 
inated the many mechanical annoy- 

In the early spring of 1900 a great 
road race was talked of and finally held 
on Long Island, N. Y. ; the distance, 
which at that time seemed almost im- 
possible to be made without a break- 
down, was for only fifty miles. The best 
time made was in the neighborhood of 
two and a half hours, and very few of 
the starters finished this race. To-day 
we see racing cars clipping off fifty 
miles in less than fifty minutes, and see 

them run almost twelve hundred miles 
on a circular track in twenty-four con- 
secutive hours, which shows not only a 
wonderful speed average, but great en- 

Many of us will recall the endurance 
run held about eight years ago between 
New York City and Buffalo. The writer 
was the official timekeeper on this run, 
and remembers many interesting de- 
tials, too numerous to mention here. 
The running schedule averaged only 
seventy-five miles a day, with six days 
in which to complete a distance of only 
four hundred and fifty miles. About 
fifty cars started from New York and 
only seventeen finished the run. In the re- 
cent Glidden tour the course was nearly 
three thousand miles, over all kinds of 
roads and through fields where roads 
had not been laid out. The time set 
for this run was three weeks. Almost 
every car, regardless of price or horse- 
power, finished with a splendid average 
to its credit. We have seen this busi- 
ness spring up and make great strides. 
Various motive powers have been thor- 
oughly tried out, including electric, 
steam, compressed air and gasoline, 
each branch using different systems. 
The last one — gasoline — is now most 
generally adopted, although some of 
the others have value in their particu- 
lar phase of the business. The most in- 
teresting, however, is by far the gaso- 
line motor. Before speaking of motors, 
however, we think it would be well to 
mention here that, aside from the clever 
work automobile engineers have done 
to bring their motors up to the present 
high standard, the cars in general have 
been improved from two other sources 
— one is the interest carriage builders 
have taken in body building, and the 
other is the ever-present public de- | 
mand. The carriage builders have 



W. Mason Turner 

given us all the present refinement of 
the business, and have helped to place 
it on a more rational basis. Many of 
the old-established carriage concerns 
are now just as prominent in building 
touring cars, limousines and special 
bodies. When a customer wants some- 
thing out of the ordinary we do not, as 
a rule, call upon our factory for this 
work. We all know special work from 
the factory is exceedingly expensive, 
but we do call up the carriage builder 

and furnish him with chassis speci- 
fications, and let him proceed to design 
and make suggestions and finally build 
and mount the body. They have done 
much to keep up the standard of cars 
by refinishing them and making them 
look almost like new; and in speaking 
of our present-day car we must not 
lose sight of the old-established car- 
riage builder. The public has, in many 
instances, been used in a way to experi- 
ment on. The early demand for cars 



was so great, however, that factories 
turned out cars to supply the demand, 
and did not have the time to build and 
perfect what they had started on. Con- 
sequently, the public, to their sorrow 
in many cases, offered numerous sug- 
gestions which they had learned 
through their own experience would be 
an improvement on the car which they 
were using. The wise manufacturer 
and the most successful have been 
those who have tried to satisfy their 
customers. For instance, the public de- 
manded a quiet-running car. You will 
recall the early cars of 1900, especially 
the chain-driven foreign cars, and the 
noise they would make. The quiet car 
in those days was an exception — now 
conditions are reversed. The public 
demanded a shaft-driven car, and we 
find cars of this type well in the ma- 
jority, regardless of the mechanical 
merits of either type, chain or shaft 
driven. It is not the intention of the 
writer to state his views ; however, we 
do know that the shaft-driven car is 
more popular and that the foreigners 
are now building them; which signi- 
fies, in a way, that it is not impossible 
or impractical to make them as strong 
and flexible as those which were driven 
by the single and double chains. The 
strongest argument in favor of the pro- 
peller shaft seems to be that this sys- 
tem is used in ocean liners, and it is 
simply a question of getting enough of 
the right material in the right place, 
properly assembled. 

To go back to the subject of motors. 
As we have said before, the most in- 
teresting type is the gasoline motor. 
We have been using them for many 
years in stationary and marine work — 
that type of motor was not at first ap- 
plicable to a motor where flexibility 
of power and speed were necessary; 
consequently, the marine engine was 
temporarily laid aside and the four- 
cycle engine was adopted ; first, in the 
form of a single cylinder, air-cooled. 
Cars using this style of motor were 
not smooth-running, as they would al- 
most snap your head off and fairly lift 
off the ground when first starting 
away. Then some bright engineer 

produced a motor with two such cyl- 
inders and tried cooling them with 
water instead of air. The double cyl- 
inder seemed to be the right solution 
and we were given two types to choose 
from — those of the horizontal opposed 
cylinders and those whose cylinders 
were vertical and known as the upright 
type. It was not long, however, be- 
fore three-cylinder motor cars became 
prominent, only to be quickly dis- 
carded for those with four cylinders; 
to-day this type is in the majority. 
However, there are a number of firms 
producing six-cylinder motor cars and 
with very strong-talking points in their 
favor. For those who enjoy reading 
about automobile motors, but do not 
care for technical articles, perhaps I 
can briefly enlighten you on a few 
points of interest in regard to gaso- 
line engines. 

First of all, let me state that we are 
talking now about four-cycle engines 
only, and do you know what four- 
cycle means? Not four cylinders, as 
many would naturally suppose, because 
a single-cylinder engine can be made 
of the four-cycle type. It means this : 
At every fourth stroke of the piston 
traveling up and down in the cylinder, 
one explosion takes place. The four 
strokes are called : suction, or the first 
downward stroke; compression, the 
first upward stroke ; explosion, the sec- 
ond downward stroke, and exhaust, the 
second upward stroke. Therefore, after 
the piston has made the suction, com- 
pression, explosion and exhaust strokes, 
the shaft and fly wheel have made two 
complete revolutions, but only one ex- 
plosion has taken place during the four 
strokes. Now you know the meaning 
of four-cycle. 

Now, then, you may ask how is the 
£as led into the cylinder and again ex- 
hausted at the proper time? The an- 
swer is : By the use of valves. These 
are operated by springs and push rods, 
which in turn are forced up by cams 
on a cam shaft and forced back again 
to their seat by a heavy spring. The 
cam shaft has to be driven by gears off 
the main shaft and runs just one-half 
the speed of the main shaft. There is 



one inlet and one exhaust valve on each 
cylinder. In the early days the inlet 
valves were operated automatically by 
the suction of the piston traveling- 
downward in the cylinder and closed 
automatically by a spring and also by 
the compression in the cylinder; Iioav- 
ever, the exhaust valve has always been 
mechanically operated. In the present 
four-cycle motors we find both the in- 
let and the exhaust valves mechani- 
cally operated. Some types of gasoline 
motors place the inlet and exhaust 
valves on opposite sides of the cylinder 
— others place them all on one side. 
This necessitates using a smaller valve 
in order to get them both on, side by 
side, though one cam shaft with tim- 
ing gear is eliminated. Then, again, we 
see the valves in the head of the motor. 
This type was designed to give more 
firing power directly over the piston 
head and do away with the firing cham- 
bers on the side. A greater compres- 
sion can be obtained, of course, but it 
is necessary to have exposed rocker 
arms over the cylinder heads. Some 
difficulty, however, was experienced in 
keeping the valves sufficiently cooled to 
prevent warping. It seems that every 
possible means to improve the four- 
cycle motor has been tried. Starting 
in with the single cylinder, then the 
double cylinder, both opposed and up- 

right types; next came the three-cylin- 
der, followed closely by the four, and 
now many six-cylinder motors are in 
use, and even those with eight cylin- 
ders are being tried. Valves have been 
placed on the opposite sides of the cylin- 
ders, on one side alone and in the heads 
of the cylinders, all such methods re- 
sorted to to obtain flexibility of power, 
which means a smooth, quiet-running 
motor. However, we are living in the 
age of rapid investigation, not only in 
this line, but in all feasible lines — 
schools, colleges and Universities are 
better equipped to-day with valuable 
appliances for further research than 
ever before. The perfecting of electric 
ignition generators has made it possi- 
ble for us to advance as we have in 
motor building, and now we find our- 
selves abreast with the demand for a 
gasoline motor which must be flexible, 
but at the same time free from com- 

Perhaps -in another article, at some 
future time, the writer may have the 
privilege of talking with you again 
about motors of the two-cycle instead 
of the four-cycle type, which subject is 
most interesting and very simple, so 
that any one may grasp the principle 
very quickly. Like all great inventions 
of to-day, the most wonderful are in 
reality the simplest. 

The Future of the Automobile 


President Boston Automobile Dealers' Association 

X X THAT is the future of the auto- 
| 1/1/ mobile? 

T ▼ That question has been 

isked by thousands in recent years. 
Men who own cars, prospective 
owners, and others who never will 
lave a car have seen the industry 
blossom from nothing into one of the 
world's greatest industries and they 
ire interested to know what the future 
vill bring forth. This is but natural 

when one recalls the bicycle industry, 
that for a number of years flourished, 
but eventually declined rapidly, and 
so with that in mind people wonder 
if it will be a similar story with the 
automobile. That has been the proph- 
ecy of many who saw in the motor 
car a fad for the man with lots of 
money. These prophets, however, did 
not and would not take into considera- 
tion the vital distinction that divided 



J. H. 


the two industries, the underlying 
principles, namely, that the owner of 
the bicycle had to apply his own motor 
power while with the automobile the 
power was supplied and therein was 
useful for more purposes than that of 
mere pleasure. 

To look into the future and predict 
the outcome one must necessarily be- 
come retrospective first. Glancing 
back over the few years, less than a 
decade and therefore within the mem- 
ory of everyone who has reached man's 
estate, that covers the history of the 

automobile industry in this country i1 
reveals a marvel of progressiveness 
unequaled the world over elsewhere 
When the present century began there] 
was little thought of what the nexl 
few years had in store for America 
The motor factories in this country at 
that time could be counted on the fin-! 
gers. Automobiles were so novel tha1| 
they attracted attention wherever the} 
went and the owners were looked upor 
sometimes with as much curiosity as 
their machines. 

It certainly is a far cry from half a 


dozen makes representing a total out- 
put of a few hundred to two hundred 
and ninety firms that will put on the 
market for 1910 something more than 
300,000 automobiles. Recent figures 
show that 145 cities in 24 states are 
now benefiting from the introduction 
of the motor cars, for the production of 
cars alone will reach nearly $500,000,- 
looo for the year. Added to this are 
l|the many factories in which accessories 
jare made. Also the garages by the 
([thousand, while the changes necessi- 
tated in real estate would easily show 
total of $1,000,000,000 invested in 
his one industry. Thousands of 
skilled workmen are employed the 
ear round, making excellent citizens 
3f them, for they get good wages. 
The advent of different makes each 
ear brought about the needed com- 
)etition to produce the present car with 
|ill its refinements. Makers saw that 
>ven though the country could absorb 
11 the machines for some years to 
ome, that it was imperative that some- 
hing more than a motor on four 
yheels with any old kind of body was 
leeded to build up the business. Ex- 
>erts were secured. Men were sent 
broad to study developments there. 
Carriage makers were forced to take 
ognizance of the new industry and 
uild suitable bodies, so that gradually 
he users of the cars found that they 
ere getting something better each 
ear and they continued to buy them. 
[11 this brought about the splendid 
suits we see to-day. The best evi- 
ence of the stability of the industry 
as proven in 1907, when we had the 
nancial troubles, for no other industry 
ft feathered it so well and came back 
) quickly as did the motor industry, 
hat is the story of the past and the 
!« resent. 

ryi Now we may glance at the future. No 
1 Si idustry founded upon such a basis is 
tl ping to crumble, for there is too much 
tii stake. Looking ahead one may see 
if ie motor car much the same as it is at 
tji 'esent. The gasoline motor has been 
'rfected so that it does more than is 
hall <ked of it by any except the owner who 
:pects it to leap chasms and do the un- 

believable. There will be further refine- 
ments, to be sure, but not in the nature 
of any radical changes. The motors 
may become somewhat smaller and yet 
develop the same power, for compact- 
ness from which may be derived lighter 
machines is what the designers are 
aiming at. Economy, too, is getting 
its share of consideration. So that 
from the mechanical point of view the 
future car will embody lightness, 
power and a longer mileage per gallon 
of gasoline. 

The styles may vary, but not to any 
great extent. That will depend upon 
the motorists, for if they insist on cer- 
tain types of bodies the makers will 
turn them out. But the standard 
promises to be a light car that will 
carry four passengers. The heavy 
machines will always be in demand. 
So will the runabouts. Gradually there 
will be a demand for the closed car 
and the future will see the ordinary 
motorist with a car that combines two 
bodies, interchangeable quickly, for all 
sorts of weather so that it may be in 
use the year round. 

Any consideration of the future of 
the automobile would not be complete 
without reference to the commercial 
field. Compared to the manufacture 
of the pleasure car, the commercial 
vehicle has been given less attention 
than it deserved, but the future of the 
latter is very bright. Where one 
truck or delivery wagon was seen a 
year ago there are now a dozen, and 
the ratio is bound to increase even to 
a greater extent. Nation, state, city, 
and town finds the motor vehicle more 
economical than the horse-drawn one, 
and now we have mail wagons, ambu- 
lances, fire wagons, etc., in many 
places propelled by motors. They 
cover a greater area in quicker time 
than was formerly done, and as this is 
an age when the value of time is of 
greater importance than ever the neces- 
sity of the motor wagon is making itself 

Business men are now taking cog- 
nizance of this and they are rapidly 
falling in line with the progressiveness 
of the age. In every large city all 



sorts of merchandise is being hauled 
by the motor truck. Weather has no 
effect upon them and business is ex- 
pedited. This does not mean the ex- 
tinction of the h6rse, for there is room 
for both. Where the volume of busi- 
ness is increasing rapidly the firm that 
can deliver larger quantities in quick 
time is certain to find its orders in- 
creasing faster than the firm that is 
satisfied to plod along in the old way. 

Correlated with the motor car of the 
future will be the aeroplane. Some 
people are inclined to think that the 
perfection of the aeroplane will cause 
a decrease in the popularity of the 
motor car, but time will prove this 
erroneous. Within a few months I 
have advertised an aeroplane and of 
the many answers received requesting 
information about it the majority came 
from owners of motor cars. Inter- 
viewing them brought out the fact that 

they would like to own flying machines | 
and at the same time continue operat- | 
ing their motor cars. Weather con- 
ditions may have some effect on the 
use of the planes when they could not 
affect the motor car, and therefore the \\ 
owner of both would have something j| 
to use regardless of whatever turned \i 
up. Natural timidity will prevent the i 
aeroplane ever becoming as popular as i 
the motor car, and for that reason there j 
will be room for both. Prices for both | 
will reach a figure that will put them 1 
where the man of ordinary means will! 
be able to own them, but that does not!} 
mean there will be any tumbling of J 
prices, for the makers must put the; 
best materials into their creations and!) 
pay for skilled work, so that will pre-i 
vent bargain-counter prices. It is a! 
future with a glorious outlook that! 
means much for the welfare of the 

The Motor- Cycle 


Secretary of Federation of American M>tor- Cyclists 

MOTOR-CYCLING, as a sport, 
has taken a strong hold in this 
country, and is becoming more 
and more popular with the younger ele- 
ment, especially of the motoring public. 
For real, genuine enthusiasm the mo- 
tor-cyclist can give 'the automobilist 
cards and spades and then beat him. 
There are other ways the little two- 
wheelers can trim the automobiles, too; 
but perhaps the less said about it the 
better, for no driver cares to be re- 
minded of the many times he has been 
overhauled and passed on the road by 
some of the "little brothers of the rich." 
This recalls the story told of one 
wealthy A. C. A. member. He couldn't 
understand why a $250 motor-cycle 
could cover ground faster than his 
$5000 car, and after a most conclusive 
demonstration that it could, he sput- 
tered in indignation : "Confound those 

road-lice, anyway," and more to the! 
same effect. Even now the name brings 
a smile wherever it is mentioned. 

Motor-cycling as a business has 
grown more slowly than the manufac 
ture of automobiles. There are at pres- 
ent twelve or fourteen large concerns 
members of the Motor-cycle Manufac- 
turers' Association, and their total out- 
put this year will be close to 40,000 ma 
chines. Nearly one-quarter ot this 
number will be made right here in New 
England by two manufacturers. Th( 
balance will come mostly from Chicago 
and the larger cities near there. 

Track racing is rapidly assuming 
great importance. Banked board track! 
are being built all over the country 
and promoters are planning a circui 
that will bring racing into the limeligh 
in the East in the summer and on th< 
Pacific coast during the winter months 



In the near future the motor-cycle is 
bound to take its proper place as a util- 
ity vehicle. For the delivery of light 
packages the motor-cycle tri-car can- 
not be equaled for rapidity, economy 
and general satisfaction. It is so sim- 
ple that any boy can run it, and his 
wages need be only half what a chauf- 
feur can command. Maintenance costs 
are low, and one gallon of gasoline will 
idrive the car fifty to sixty miles. At 
present the motor-cycle is used by the 
police departments of all the larger 
cities, by telephone and telegraph line- 
men, and quite extensively by R. F. D. 
letter carriers. In Boston and in 
Worcester, for instance, the traffic po- 
lice are mounted on motor-cycles made 
W a Brockton (Mass.) concern — the 
American Motor Company. They have 
:>een in use for several years, and in 

their annual reports the police com- 
missioners have always praised the effi- 
ciency of the traffic squads and recom- 
mended the purchase of more motor- 
cycles for enlarging these departments. 
This is true also in the other cities 
where the motor-cycle has been given 
a trial. 

The objectionable features of the 
earlier motor-cycle have been done 
away with. Manufacturers have 
discarded the bicycle-with-a-motor-at- 
tached idea entirely, and the up-to-date 
motor-cycle is quiet, clean, comfort- 
able to ride and strongly built. It 
is heavy enough to be substantial 
(150 to 200 pounds), and is fitted 
with spring suspension, large tires, 
a clutch or two-speed gear, etc., 
very much as the automobile is 

Hill, lieutenant Worcester Police Department, and his motor cycle 

The Brave Reward 


'It is not yours, O mother, to complain, 
Though no more the birth of me whom once you bore 
Seems still the brave reward that once it seemed of yore." 

— R. Iv. S. 

ALL the little town of Welden 
knew that Mrs. Hooper had a 
son, although the younger gen- 
eration had never beheld him. For 
twenty years John Hooper had fol- 
lowed the sea in remote parts of the 
globe and in all those years not even 
his mother had seen his face. Yet 
"my son" was a living presence in the 
Hooper household now that it was 
comprised in one person no less than 
he had been when it numbered eight 
members. He figured in all Mrs. 
Hooper's simple business transactions, 
he had determined her attitude toward 
her married daughters and her sons- 
in-law, and his imagined tastes and de- 
sires had guided her along many a 
path where no stern figure of duty 
stood to point a clearer way. Five 
daughters had grown up around her 
and married ; some had moved away, 
two had died; one still lived on in 
Welden with a home, a husband, and a 
little family of her own. There had 
been no mystery about any of these. 
Welden had known them to be its 
own and as its own; — a staunch, 
steady-going, country strain, born of 
the hills and the green woods and fields 
and never living far out of sight of 

But with John Hooper it had been 
different. He was a precocious child, 
as precocity went in Welden. When 
he was seven years old he was ap- 
pointed to "speak a piece" at the Bap- 
tist Sunday School Picnic and he 
startled his family and tickled the vil- 
lage sense of humor with a recitation 
on the "trials of an only son with a 

host of sisters and all old maids," as 
the refrain ran. He was fond of read- 
ing and the village library supplied 
him with the long procession of heroes 
of The Young America and the adven- 
tures of Robinson Crusoe. He read one 
of the Rollo books and passed the 
rest of the series' by without com- 
ment. A little later he found Herman 
Melville's Omoo and Typee; Gulliver's 
Travels, which had, innocently enough, 
fallen into the same classification; and 
Thomes's Gold Hunters and Life in the 
Bast Indies; and from all these books 
the airs of strange seas and foreign 
lands blew upon him and kindled a 
ready imagination. 

When he was sixteen he went on a 
visit to Boston. His uncle and his 
staid, self-contained cousins — Phillip- 
ses and his mother's stock — interested 
him little. He used their gravely hos- 
pitable home at his convenience, but 
all day long he roamed the city's busy 
waterfront ; he went through the Char- 
lestown navy yard ; he slipped aboard 
many a dingy tramp steamer and 
splendid full-rigged ship and peered 
into more than one forbidden corner 
ere he was discovered and ordered off.! 
Before he left the city he had held 1 
converse with a few loitering Jack; 
Tars and had even put certain momen- 
tous questions to a good-natured sec- 
ond officer and had been answered. 
So when his fortnight was up and he 
went back to Welden it was with 
his resolution made, his career chosen. 

It took a year and a half of unyield- 
ing obstinacy to bring his father and 
mother to his point of view. Argu- 



ment proved useless on either side, but, 
where something must obviously be 
done, John pursued a triumphant 
course of passive resistance. He re- 
fused to go to school; he effectively 
shirked every labor that was imposed 
on him; he turned a deaf ear to all 
persuasions of local industries or emolu- 
ments; and he finally and completely 
exhausted the library's stock of trav- 
els and adventure. His mother was the 
first to yield, her own sequestered 
spirit of romance answering to the 
boy's desperate longing. The issue 
once decided, she made ready his out- 
fit and packed his trunk with her own 
hands, and though the carefully folded 
garments were spotted with her tears, 
all the while she felt the little unaccus- 
tomed heart-stabs of quickened fancy 
and ambitions as vague and bright and 
groundless as his own. When they 
said bood-bye at the railway station 
John's father was the first to turn 
away. It was the mother who slipped 
into the boy's hand an extra twenty- 
five dollars, the fruit of quiet self-de- 
nial, and watched him board the train 
Jwith all the hopes and prayers that 
could not, in these last moments, find 
utterance, shining in her eyes. 

Thus the voice of the deep had called 
John Hooper and he had obeyed it. 
In the middle bureau drawer in Mrs. 
Hooper's room lay the packets of his 
letters, a goodly number in all these 
years, with their strange, foreign 
stamps and postmarks— Buenos Ayres, 
Yokohama, Manila, Bombay, Singa- 
pore, Batavia, Sydney, Papeete. The 
earlier ones were fat and bulky, many 
sheets covered with bold, plain, boyish 
script and full of the delighted vision 
of wondrous scenes. The envelopes 
were worn and frayed with much 
handling. Perhaps the neighbors 
could estimate how many times those 
descriptive passages had been read 
aloud, but they had no clue to the 
number of silent perusals that had 
fixed their lines indelibly in Mrs. 
Hooper's mind, so that there were days 
when the woman went about her aus- 
tere New England life in a glow of 
of tropic sunshine, breathing strange 

perfumes and looking inward on 
bright, unfamiliar pictures. There 
was one envelope more strained and 
spotted than the rest. The letter with- 
in told of his first command, the cap- 
taincy of the little South Sea trading 
schooner that seemed to mean so much 
to John Hooper's ambitions, and on 
the last page was the postscript that 
acknowledged the news of his father's 

"I suppose you think I would be 
more use to you now if I had been a 
farmer instead of a sailor," he wrote. 
"As it is, I am just on my feet to make 
something; at last I can help you a 
little now, when you need it, and after 
a few years of this I shall be where 
I can afford to think of a change, and 
coming home, and taking things a bit 

If help would sometimes have been 
welcome, the fact was never men- 
tioned in Mrs. Hooper's letters and 
John sent no money then or in the 
six years that followed. Nor was there 
urgent need of any. Weddings, funer- 
als, and grandchildren coming into 
the world laid their tax at one time and 
another on the modest estate, but with 
the dwindling of the home family the 
every-day expenses had diminished in 
proportion, and with careful manage- 
ment and frugal living the rental of 
the two brick stores in town and the 
income from the few acres of farming 
land had sufficed for all purposes. 
More than for money Mrs. Hooper had 
wished for an occasional gift that 
should be representative of the strange 
lands in which her son was so much 
at home. It might be valueless in it- 
self so that it offered tangible evidence 
of countries and peoples undreamed of 
in Welden. Abby Hunter's sister Rose, 
who lived in Florida, had sent her a 
beautiful collection of dried and 
pressed sea mosses. Mrs. Colton's 
daughter, who had married a rich New- 
York lawyer, had brought her mother 
from Europe a dress pattern of black 
silk of a weight and luster that had 
dazed the Welden dressmakers. Back 
to the years of her childhood Mrs. 
Hooper dimly remembered the legends 



of an aunt in New Bedford whose hus- 
band was a sea captain. From every 
voyage he had brought home some 
treasure — a real India shawl, a parrot, 
a wonderfully carved box of sandal- 
wood. Others than Mrs. Hooper 
noticed this omission. Sophia Peck 
said boldly to her one day, after listen- 
ing to a description of some South Sea 
curiosities : 

"It's funny John never sends you 
any souvenirs of his travels. I should 
think there'd be lots of trinkets he 
could pick up, sailing around the way 
he does." 

"John knows I never cared much for 
trinkets," answered his mother with 
loyal falsehood. "Besides, I don't sup- 
pose it's very safe sending bundles all 
the way from where he is. 'Tisn't as 
if he was just across the Atlantic." 

But the spoken words left a sting 
that was hard to be borne. A delicate 
pride had kept her, in the past, from 
suggesting any wish of her own. A 
stronger pride impelled her now to 
break this reticence. The hint was con- 
veyed timidly, but in terms of unmis- 
takable desire, and six months later the 
Pacific mail brought her a small box 
bearing the imprint of a firm of Lon- 
don and Sydney jewelers. It contained 
a handsome brooch of Australian opal 
set in Australian gold. Carping ton- 
gues were silenced and if, in her own 
heart, Mrs. Hooper would have per- 
ferred some more barbaric ornament, 
a specimen of primitive craftsmanship, 
the ungrateful thought was buried 
without speech. 

One day a rumor stole out from the 
local telegraph office and ran quickly 
through the village street, kindling 
speculation and discussion as it passed. 
When it reached the ears of Miss Peck 
she waited for no idle conjectures, but 
put on her hat and started for the rail- 
way station. It was an hour when no 
train was due and the place was al- 
most deserted. She looked in at the 
office door and saw Mike Flannagan, 
the operator, sitting on the station 
agent's high stool and catching flies 
with a dexterity bred of long practice. 

"Mike, what's this I hear?" she 

asked. "Is it true you've had a cable- 
gram for Mrs. Hooper?" 

"That's right," affirmed Mike cheer- 
fully. "All the way from Sydney, 
Australia. Cable to New York, tele- 
graph from New York to Welden. We 
don't get many of them around here !" 

"No, I guess you don't," asserted 
Miss Peck. "What did it say?" 

Mike pushed his straw hat a little 
further back on his head and eyed her 

"See here, Miss Peck," he said at 
length. "You ask Mrs. Hooper that 
question. She'll tell you quick enough. ! J 
Then I won't get meself into trouble 
for telling what I've no business to." ;! 

"Seems to me you're terribly afraid, j| 
all at once," observed Miss Peck, with 

Mike smiled at her ingratiatingly. 
"I'm not afraid you'd do anything to 
make me harm," he said. "But there's 
others in this town wouldn't mind step- 
ping into my job and I'm pretty well 
suited with it meself. So I'm on the 
safe side if I mind the rules. See? — 
It's no bad news !" he called after her 
as Miss Peck withdrew from the door. 

The station agent looked over from 
the operator's chair by the window 
where he sat fanning himself. "What's 
struck you?" he asked. 

Mike swung around to face him. 
"Don't you suppose she'd like to be 
the first to tell that news herself?" he 
demanded. "I wouldn't take that 
pleasure away from the old ladv for a 

Straight to her friend's house went 
Sophia Peck and, without stopping to 
knock, opened the door and walked in. 
It must have been three hours since the 
message had been delivered but Mrs. 
Hooper sat by the window, a slip of 
yellow paper in her lap and wiping her 
glasses as if for its first perusal. There 
was no need for questions. At the 
sight of Miss Peck she laid down her 
glasses and lifted the paper with a little 

"My John is coming home !" she 

That was all the data Welden had 
for its gossip during the following 




month. It was all that Mrs. Hooper 
herself knew. The cable message had 
stated only that he should sail from 
Sydney the next day and was coming 
straight home. Welden puzzled over 
the news and guessed blindly at the 
lacking details. Mrs. Hooper was 
neither surprised nor, outwardly, im- 
patient. She had always expected that 
her son would come home some day 
to her, she had waited long and now 
he was coming she could wait the few 
remaining days in calmness. 

Mike Flannagan dropped in to see 
her one evening, his pockets stuffed 
with steamship and railway timetables. 
He showed her that John must have 
taken the Vancouver steamer, figured 
the earliest possible moment that he 
could arrive, pointed out the various 
possibilities of delay and gave her a 
local folder on which he had checked 
the train most likely, in his estimation, 
to bring the wanderer home. 

''You don't remember my John, do 
you?" asked Mrs. Hooper, as he was 
leaving. "No, of course you don't !" she 
added, laughingly. "You was only a 
baby then. I remember going in to see 
your mother the day after he went 
away. It seemed as if she had a house- 
ful of babies and you was the youngest 
Df them all. I've never seen John since 
and here you are, telegraph operator." 
She laid a hand kindly on his shoulder. 
'You've been a good boy to your 
nother, Mike," she said. "And now my 
boy is coming home to be a comfort 
:o me in my old age." 

A week before the earliest date noted 
Dii her folder Mrs. Hooper began 
watching from her trellised doorway as 
:he daily Accommodation from Mon- 
real drew in to the station. Across 
two empty fields she could see the 
smoke of the locomotive rising from 
:he hollow where the station lay and 
ler eyes would travel from this to the 
:orner where John must leave Depot 
street and turn into the quiet, shady 
oad that passed her door. So she stood 
)n the seventh day, gazing intently 
iown the street, when a man sprang 
)ver the low paling directly opposite 
md crossed the road. He was a tall, 

well-built figure of a man, full bearded 
and of a ruddy complexion. She 
looked at him for a moment, half 
startled, as he approached her — then 
with a little cry she ran down the 

"My boy!" 

"Mother!" said John Hooper, and 
folded her in his arms. 

"You remembered the old path!" 
she said wonderingly as they mounted 
the steps, his arm still around her. 

"Of course I remembered the old 
path!" he cried. "I remember every- 
thing. There never used to be any 
fence there. Did you suppose I'd for- 
gotten how all the old things looked?" 

In the shelter of the porch he placed 
both hands on her shoulders and held 
her away from him. He looked at the 
slight frame with its drooping shoul- 
ders, the worn hair streaked with gray, 
the flushed cheeks and the fine wrin- 
kles on the delicate skin, the eyes so 
moist and bright and his own blurred. 
Memory rose up and smote him. He 
pulled her to him and hid her face 
against his shoulders and kissed the 
gray hair tenderly. 

"Never mind, Mother. Home at 
last !" he said with a choking in his 

Inside the house he sat down op- 
posite her, his hands on her knees. 

"What do you suppose it was that 
did the business ?" he asked her. "What 
was it that made me as homesick as a 
goat, so I threw up my berth without a 
day's notice and went out and bought a 
ticket for the first steamer home? 
Guess, now !" 

"Why, John, I haven't the faintest 
idea !" said his mother blankly. 

He laughed. "Well, you're the guilty 
party. And this is just what did it. 
See here!" 

He took some papers from his pocket 
and sorted out a letter. She recognized 
her own handwriting. He spread it 
open before her and she saw it was 
the last one she had written, under date 
of May fourteenth. "Here," he said, 
"read this!" 

She read her own words : "The 
Spring is beautiful now with new grass 



and apple, peach, cherry and pear 
trees in full bloom. The air is loaded 
with fragrance. I am growing some 
lettuce under glass and from the South 
we are getting our first supply of 
strawberries ' and asparagus. Dande- 
lions are plenty in the meadows." 

She looked up in dismay. "But, 
John !" she cried, "that was in May. 
Strawberries and asparagus are all 
gone by long ago. 

John's face fell. "By Jove, that's so. 
Dandelion greens, too, I suppose? And 
I've been thinking all the way home 
how good they were going to taste." 

"I never imagined you'd think of 
dandelion greens," said Mrs. Hooper, 
"after all the wonderful things you've 
had to eat — pineapples and breadfruit 
and cocoanuts off the trees — " 

"Cocoanuts !" roared John. "Mother 
if you ever name cocoanuts to me 
there's going to be trouble! I never 
want to hear, see, or smell cocoanuts 
again as long as I live. You don't 
understand that, do you?" he added, 
seeing the look of perplexity on her 
face. "Well, I don't know myself what 
it is about the stuff we get there. It's 
not like fruit and nuts at home. For 
one thing, it's all the same the year 
round, year after year, and you get 
horribly sick of it, but you have to 
keep on eating it because you can't 
get anything else." 

"Do you have green corn down 
there?" she asked, almost timidly. 

"What! Is green corn ripe? O, I 
say! I'm glad I missed the straw- 
berries! What else is there? Tell me, 
Mother. I've clean forgotten my farm- 
ing, that's a fact !" 

He took a boyish delight in every 
item of the possible menus unfolded to 
him and his mother's spirits rose as she 
saw opportunities multiply for giving 
him pleasure. 

His boxes came from the station, 
great, yellow camphor- wood chests, and 
were taken up to his chamber. He 
threw open the blinds and let in the 
flood of warm, afternoon sunshine. The 
room was spotlessly clean and bright, 
the old-fashioned feather bed standing 
high under its snowy counterpane and 

ruffled pillow shams. The bowl and' 
pitcher of blue and white ware were| 
the same he had used as a boy. The 
wall paper was modern, but the old 
steel engraving of Washington Cross- 
ing the Delaware and the lithograph of 
Napoleon at St. Helena still hung in 
their respective places. At the head 
of the bed stood a small table on which 
were a night lamp and a Bible. 

While Mrs. Hooper busied herself in 
the kitchen, John wandered through the 
house, finding now and then, among 
much that was old and familiar, the 
modern touch that told of renewal and 
repair. He sauntered out into the 
piazza and around the house tc 
the garden. There were rows oi 
larkspur and sweet peas and beds 
Of petunias and mignonette, with a 
background of string beans and toma-i 
toes and lettuce, no longer under glass j 
He looked in at the kitchen door andj 
was driven away by his mother, whc 
threatened him with floury fingers, in 
a glow of happy excitement. He found 
the last number of the Weekly Courier 
and sat on the side steps reading il 
while the sun declined in the west as 
the big maple at the rearward cornel 
of the house sent a lengthening shadow 
athwart him. 

When his mother came to call hiir 
to supper he seemed already to hav( 
lost something of his first brusquenes* 
and to be more in accord with th< 
pleasant quietness of the place. T< 
the restless sea-farer the impression' 
of peaceful home life culminated fit 
tingly in the table set between two lon£ 
windows, with the low, western sui 
shining full on its white napery an( 
china, and the delicate fragrance 
home-made bread and fresh butter an( 
cream hovering over it. At one en( 
of the table stood a large, old-fashione( 
chair with rounded back and arms an( 
cushioned seat. Mrs. Hooper paused 
her hand resting on its back. 

"This is your place now, John," sh 

It was the first allusion to his father 
She had tried to speak naturally but he 
chin quivered. John was at her sid> 
and suddenly her composure broke an< 



the tears streamed down her face. "It 
has been lonesome," she said, and 
clung to his shoulder and wept for a 
moment. Then she lifted her head and 
wiped her eyes. "I mustn't spoil your 
supper," she said, struggling to smile 
at him, "now I've got you back. I 
cooked a little extra because I thought 
you'd be hungry after your journey." 
»They sat down and the gladness came 
back to her eyes under John's praises 
of her supper. There were cold veal 
loaf and currant jelly and hot creamed 
potatoes and green peas and ripe 
sliced tomatoes and delicious bread 
and butter and sugar cookies and a 
custard pie. 

Wait a minute, John," said his 
mother as he stretched out a hand to- 
wards the pie. "There's something else 
erhaps you'd better see first." 
She disappeared into the kitchen and 
resently returned bearing a plate 
whereon rose a feathery mountain of 
lot, flaky, white shortcake, all stained 
nd ripping with the rosy juice of 
rushed raspberries and topped by a 
nowy mound of whipped cream. She 

Iet it down before him. 
"That's the nearest I could come to 
trawberry shortcake," she said, apolo- 

j John drew a deep breath. "Mother, 
've been the biggest kind of a fool all 

ese years," he said. 

They were still at the table when 
11a walked in, John's sister, who had 

arried George Bascom. She was a 
ender woman of about thirty-five, in 
'horn her mother's delicate vigor was 
Dnsiderably attenuated. There were 
eevish lines around the thin nostrils 
id the corners of the mouth showed 

tendency to droop. 

"I suppose you're brother John," she 

id, advancing to him with evident 

rvous embarrassment. 

He kissed her with hearty assurance. 

rs. Hooper drew a chair up to the 

ble and insisted on giving her a piece 


: Tve just finished my supper," Ella 
lotested. "I left George putting the 
(ildren to bed and I've got to hurry 
lick and wash the dishes. I'd given 

up expecting we ever should see you 
again," she added to John. 

They asked and answered questions, 
talking in the desultory manner of 
people who have nothing in common, 
but are bound to keep up an appearance 
of mental interest. 

John pushed his chair away from the 
table, tilted it back at a comfortable 
angle, and drew a pipe and tobacco 
pouch from his pocket. The two 
women watched him, aghast, as he 
filled the pipe, stowed away the pouch, 
and drew forth a box of matches. 

His mother gave a little gasp. "You 
don't mean that you've taken to smok- 
ing, John !" she cried. 

He looked up in the act of striking 
a match and held it suspended in blank 
amazement. "Taken to smoking!" he 
repeated. Then he threw his head 
back and laughed immoderately. 
"That's right !" he said. "Father never 
did smoke, did he? I've forgotten. 
Why, yes, Mother dear, I took to smok- 
ing just about twenty years ago and 
I've smoked like a chimney ever since. 
Father never knew what he missed!" 
He lighted his pipe and turned to his 
sister, puffing gently. As he caught the 
expression on her face he paused. "Hey ! 
Don't George smoke, either?" he asked. 

"I wouldn't go so far as to say 
George never smokes," answered Mrs. 
Bascom stiffly. "He may buy a cigar 
occasionally when he's out with other 
men. He certainly never smokes in the 
house in my presence." 

"Oh-h !" said John. He took another 
puff in sheer abstraction. As the thin 
cloud drifted across the table his 
mother coughed mildly, behind her 
hand. He leaned forward and laid the 
pipe down upon his plate. "All off!" 
he said, trying to speak cheerfully, but 
he was heard to sigh as he settled back 
in his chair. 

There was a minute of awkward 
silence, then Mrs. Hooper rose. "I 
must clear away the things," she said. 
"John, don't you and Ella want to sit 
out on the porch? It's just the pleas- 
antest time of day now." 

"No," said Ella, "I must run home, 
I'd stay and help you with the work, 



Mother, only I promised little Georgie 
I'd be back and hear him say his prayers 
before he got to sleep. You must come 
over, John, and see your nephew and 
neices as soon as Mother's looked at 
you long enough. You'll find George 
down at the store all the time week 
days. I hope you won't find life in 
Welden too dull for you." 

John picked up his pipe and went 
out to the garden, where he paced back 
and forth and smoked while his mother 
washed the dishes. It was, indeed, a 
pleasant hour*. The sun was down but 
streaks of crimson still lingered in the 
west and overhead the clouds were 
tinged with faint, rosy pink. The high 
horizon was embroidered with foliage 
of elms and maples and their tall shapes 
loomed in the twilight at once strange 
and familiar, like those of some oft- 
repeated dream. Instead of the salt 
pungency of the sea in his nostrils 
there came from the garden a cool, 
earthy smell, mingled with the faint 
fragrance of sweet peas and mignon- 
ette. It was New England; it was 
home; peaceful, pleasant, shut-in. 

His mother called to him from the 
porch. Inside, the shades were drawn, 
the big lamp lighted. 

"Now tell me about your voyage," 
she begged. "I want to hear all the 
'sailor yarns' about where you've been 
and what you've seen." 

He began with some of the common- 
places of the South Sea trader's life, 
but her quest for adventure was not to 
be denied. He told of copra and pearl 
shell and low coral atolls and rugged, 
volcanic mountains ; and then he told 
of the hurricane in the Paumotus where 
his vessel had so narrowly escaped be- 
ing driven upon the reef, of his trouble 
with the socialist sailor who shipped 
from New Zealand and mutinied be- 
cause he had to work with a Chinaman, 
and of the exciting rescue of a mission- 
ary who was attacked by the cannibal 
natives in New Guinea. Some things, 
of course, he kept back, but in the main 
his narrative was free and open and 
always it was unconsciously eloquent 
of hot sun and tingling brine and 
rushing trade winds. 

It was late when they went upstairs 
and John's light was soon out. A 
minute later his mother stole softly into 
the room and tucked him in with a 
kiss and her blessing as she used to 
do when he was a boy. Yes, it was 

For a few weeks John was a celebrity 
in Welden. The old residents who re- 
membered him as a boy dropped in 
casually to hear his adventures; the 
younger generation of men scraped ac- 
quaintance with him wherever oppor- 
tunity offered. The older women were 
inclined to look askance at him, after 
a few stories had gone abroad, and the 
young ones, who saw little of him, 
meditated the more on the varied and 
piquant rumors that filtered down to 
them. Two great, fluted, white shells 
appeared as ornaments flanking the 
Hooper front door steps. On sunny 
days Mrs. Bascom's wide piazza was 
carpeted with a finely woven mat of 
something that looked like palm-leaf, 
with a zigzag design in black and a 
fringe of bright red and yellow wool. 
Callers at the house saw the genuine 
tortoise shell he had given his mother, 
— not a piece of shell but the entire 
armor of the animal. They saw, too, 
the long strips of queer, papery cloth 
made from the bark of a tree and col- 
ored in bold squares and circles, and 
triangles, which the savages of the 
South Seas wore for dresses. So- 
phia Peck was granted a private view 
of John's dress suit, a rarity in Wel- 
den, and could describe it in detail. 
Mrs. Donovan, the washerwoman, 
spread the report of his pongee silk 
underwear, and more than one staid 
matron and curious damsel found an 
excuse to pass the Hooper homestead 
on washing day and thereby catch a 
glimpse of the outlandish night-gar- 
ments, which he called pyjamas, as they; 
fluttered on the line. On the secondj 
day of his arrival, John had created a 
sensation by strolling through the vil-i 
lage attired in a white drill suit, mostj 
suitable to the hot August day, butl 
unusual and thereby improper in the! 
eyes of the villagers. When his 
mother, urged to the point by Ella, re- 




monstrated with him on the score of 
making people stare, he replied with a 
grin, "Let 'em stare, Mother. I'm not 
bashful. It'll do 'em good to have 
something new to talk about," and he 
continued to wear white during the hot 

The first Sunday brought about a 
more serious difference. Mrs. Hooper 
asked John to accompany her to church 
and he flatly refused. This time she 
did not accept defeat so easily. Argu- 
ments of duty and conscience were so 
obviously unavailing that she soon fell 
back on pleading for the mere looks of 
the thing and her own feelings. 

"I'll go if you let me wear a white 
suit," said John teasingly. 

"I want you to go looking so I can 
be proud to be seen with you," re- 
torted his mother. "I don't want folks 
to think I'm taking the miller to church. 
When Susie Colton" and her husband 
visited here they went to church with 
Mrs. Colton and he wore a Prince 
Albert coat and a stovepipe hat and 
kid gloves." 

"My, what a howling swell!" said 
John. "But I haven't a frock coat to 
my name, so that let's me out." 

"Haven't you got a tall hat?" asked 
Mrs. Hooper, wistfully. 

"Nary a bell topper," said John. 

"Of course," she hastened to add, 
rft's not to show off clothes that I want 
you to go. Your blue suit looks nice 
enough. It's because I want you with 
me and I shall feel terrible if you make 
me go alone." 

John yielded finally, with bad grace. 
He fidgetted in the pew during the long 
sermon and at the close of the service 
Jrefused to go up and speak to the min- 
ster and hurried his mother home with- 
out stopping for chat with anyone. 

"Never again, Mother. Never again !" 
he said firmly. "I'd do a good deal for 
| r ou, but that's asking too much." 
J "I'll never ask it again," said Mrs. 
ilooper, almost in tears. 

Welden was not tolerant in the mat- 
er of church going. Respectable 
eople went to church ; those who did 
ot go ranged from "queer" to down- 
ight disreputable characters, and Mrs. 

Hooper knew well that John's attitude 
would place him before the community 
in an unfavorable light. 

But in this as in other matters, out- 
side the house or within, John estab- 
lished his own habits with small re- 
gard for precedent or the "speech o' 
people." After a few nights he dis- 
carded the voluptuous feather bed pro- 
vided for him and insisted on sleeping 
upon the hard mattress. This seemed 
to Mrs. Hooper no worse than a per- 
verted taste, but when he fell into the 
way of going to his room for an hour 
or two every afternoon and lying on 
top of the bed she was moved to re- 

"I'm afraid you've forgotten your 
early bringing up," she said sorrow- 

"I've been a long time away from 
home," John admitted. "Other lands, 
other manners, you know." 

So the ruffled pillow shams followed 
the feather bed and every day after 
dinner Mrs. Hooper climbed the stairs 
to turn back the white counterpane and 
spread a steamer rug of John's over her 
patch-work quilt. "Ship shape and 
comfy," as John expressed it. Here he 
would lie and smoke his pipe, for he 
respected his mother's wishes suffici- 
ently to refrain from smoking in the 
rooms below. But strong navy cut is 
not to be confined by the closing of a 
door and the insidious aroma perco- 
lated out through cracks and keyholes 
and stole downstairs, where it lingered 
in the hallway and clung to the cur- 
tains. Mrs. Hooper caught a whiff of 
it now and then to her alarm, and then 
it seemed to disappear,for she no longer 
noticed it. One day John came across 
some choice specimens of coral in one 
of his boxes and called to his mother 
to come and see them. She sat for an 
hour looking and listening to new tales 
of tropic seas and marine wonders be- 
fore she realized that he had been smok- 
ing all the time. 

The very next afternoon Sophia Peck 
came in. Her visits were rarer now 
than of old and she was no sooner in- 
side the house than her nose went into 
the air, sniffing vigorously. 



"Well, I must say that don't seem 
natural in this house," she remarked. 

"What, can you smell it down here?" 
cried Mrs. Hooper. 

Sophia looked at her steadily. "Do 
you mean to tell me that you can't 
smell it?" she demanded. 

Mrs. Hooper's eyes dropped like 
those of a guilty child. "No — I can't," 
she faltered. "I — I guess I must be 
pretty well used to it. I don't mind 
it a bit any more. But he never smokes 
in the house, except in his own room." 

"I never thought you'd allow smok- 
ing in any room in your house, Lydia. 
But I guess John's been used to a 
pretty free life," commented Sophia. 

Mrs. Hooper straightened up. "He's 
been master of an ocean vessel for a 
good many years," she said, "and I 
don't expect he's been in the habit of 
being dictated to much by women folks. 
Sea captains have the responsibility of 
too many lives on their hands for that. 
And I can tell you," she went on 
warmly, "it seems pretty good to me 
to have a man around the house once 
more to take a little responsibility. 
He's finished haying down in the Strat- 
ton lot and I didn't have to give it a 
thought, and he got three tons more 
than I did last year. And he looks after 
all the rents and repairs." 

"Yes," assented Sophia drily. "I 
heard he told the Appleby's he'd raise 
on their rent if they didn't pay up 

"So he did !" cried Mrs. Hooper. 
"And to-day they're paid up in full, for 
the first time in months ! They'd 
worried me almost to death, dragging 
behind so all the time." 

Two months sped by and the cool, 
October days drew on. The village 
street flamed with the warm reds and 
yellows of its maples, but the air 
breathed of frost. 

"Mother, how do we keep this house 
warm in winter-time?" asked John one 
morning, coming down to breakfast 
with a blue nose and chattering teeth. 

Mrs. Hooper looked at him in con- 
cern. "You poor boy! And it hasn't 
begun to be cold weather yet! Why, 
we never have heated the chambers. 

I'd like to have a furnace put in but I 
don't know as I can afford it just now. 
We can' set up a stove in your room, 
or get one of those kerosene heaters." 

The oil heater was installed but John 
took no more siestas in his room and 
spent more and more of his time, both 
afternoon and evening, away from 
home ! Mrs. Hooper asked no ques- 
tions, but she was troubled in mind, 
fearing not so much for anything he 
might be doing as for unfriendly criti- 
cism thereon. The voice of the outside 
world, once communicated by Sophia 
Peck, seldom reached her ears now. and 
it was not until Ella Bascom suddenly 
burst into complaint and reproaches 
that her worst fears were confirmed. 

"Do you know where he spends his 
time, Mother?" demanded Ella passion- 
ately. "Down at the hotel, playing 
cards and spinning yarns and drinking 
with drummers and all the riff-raff of 
the town ! It's a shame ! George says 
there isn't a day passes that someone 
doesn't say something to him. about it, 
till he's so mortified he don't want to 
look anybody in the face ! And the 
stories he tells ! Do you know what 
he's got, that he's showed to men there 
at the hotel? Fishhooks made of hu- 
man bones ! Bones of men that have 
been killed and eaten — and he bought 
the fishhooks from the very cannibals 
that did it ! Did you know he had 
such things?" 

"Yes," answered Mrs. Hooper with 
a shudder. "He's shown them to me. 
Other things, too." 

"Well, wouldn't you think, now he's 
got back to civilization, he'd be glad 
to forget about them? But he seems 
to take delight in parading his associa- 
tion with savages before the whole I 
town, as if it was something to be ' 
proud of." 

"Ella, I'm surprised at you!" said,' 
Mrs. Hooper sternly. "You talk like j 
an ignorant child. John hasn't associ- 
ated with savages any more than a mis- 1 
sionary associates with them, or any i 
more than George associates with Tim 
Muldoon because Tim trades at his 
store. And you ought to know that 
there isn't a man in Welden that has 



seen one-tenth part of the world that 
John has or that knows one-tenth as 
much. It would look better in you to 
stand up for your brother a little, in- 
stead of running him down as if he was 
a stranger." 

"He's worse than a stranger," re- 
torted Ella. "He does things a stranger 
wouldn't dare to. Down at the store 
the other day he was helping George 
unload some barrels of phosphate and 
one dropped on his toes and he swore 
at George dreadfully. George said he 
never even heard of such language as 
he used. And, anyway, Mother, what 
right has he to loaf around like this, 
living on you? • Why don't he settle 
down to some work, if he's going to 
stay here?" 

"That," said Mrs. Hooper, "is John's 
business— and mine. There's no call 
for you or George Bascom or anybody 
else in Welden to worry themselves on 
that account. John Hooper never cost 
his father or me a cent from the day 
he was eighteen years old and he never 
so much as set foot in his father's house 
from that day till last August. You 
and all the rest of the girls lived at 
home till- you was a good deal past 
eighteen; you had money regularly 
from your father as long as he lived, 
and you've had more than a little from 
the estate since. George is doing well 
now, I understand, and if John wants 
to stay here awhile and do nothing ex- 
cept take some of the burdens off my 
shoulders, that's his privilege." 

Bravely as she had defended the 
breach, Mrs. Hooper was, nevertheless, 
driven to take counsel with John him- 
self. "I hate to think that you're giv- 
ing 'em that much excuse to talk about 
you," she concluded. "They're so ig- 
norant, and they don't understand." 

John swore under his breath. 
"They're such a pack of tattle-tales !" 
he said. "George Bascom's store is 
worse than a woman's sewing circle. 
Talk about the hotel ! Once in a while 
there's a man with some sense down 
there, but that crowd at the store is 
a regular gang of tabby cats and sis- 
sies and George is the worst one of 
the lot. Not one of them was ever 

fifty miles from Welden in his life and 
they have about as much idea of the 
world as an intelligent clam." 

"You haven't got much saved up, 
have you?" asked Mrs. Hooper irrele- 

He laughed ruefully. "No! — the 
more fool I ! But Jack ashore is a 
foolish chap, and the captain's not 
much better. That sounds like poetry, 
but it's fact." 

"I've been thinking," she pursued, 
"that if you wanted to go into some 
kind of business here I could borrow 
two or three thousand dollars from 
Mr. Wellman at the bank. The Apple- 
bys said they thought of giving up 
the store. You understand trading and 
perhaps you'd be happier if you had 
something to take up your time." 

"How would you borrow the 
money?" he asked. "On what secur- 

"I'd have to give a mortgage on 
the brick stores, I suppose. They're 
mine, to do as I please with," she added 
with a touch of defiance. 

John fell to brooding. "I'll have to 
think about that," he said. "I'll have 
to think it over, Mother." 

Then he came over to his mother, 
and, kneeling clumsily on the floor, put 
his head in her lap and his arms around 

"Well, my son?" she asked. 

"I've got to go back, Mother," he 
said. "I've been fighting it, and fighting 
it, but it's no use. This town would 
drive me mad. But that isn't it. The 
cold weather freezes me to my marrow 
and I hate it. But that's not it, either. I 
took a long walk to-day, up to the top of 
Stearns' hill, and looked around. Why, 
I'd give two fingers off my hand, right 
now, for a sight of open ocean, with a 
sail overhead, and a coral reef with 
the surf rolling in, and the salt in the 
air, and a blue lagoon with a trader's 
shanty on the beach, and some bare- 
legged natives, and cocoanut trees 
growing — yes, by Jove ! Mother, co- 
coanuts ! and I'd eat 'em and be grate- 
ful, too !" He rose and began pacing 
the room. "Of course I know I 
couldn't hang around here forever do- 



ing nothing. Ella was right enough 
about that. I'd soon go to the dogs. 
But what is there for me to do? Shut 
myself up in a brick store and sell rib- 
bon by the yard to Minnie Freeman? 
or listen to such an insufferable pack 
of duffers as George Bascom has 
around his place? — Oh, no !" He halted 
before her. "Why, Mother, I'm not 
forty years old yet. I'm a seaman by 
profession and I've been captain for 
six years. I'd look pretty settling 
down to tend store in a Vermont vil- 
lage, wouldn't I? I never figured this 
thing out when I left Sydney. I just 
took a notion I wanted to see the old 
place and you once more and I started 
off without giving it two thoughts." 
He resumed his walk. "But if you re- 
member how I wanted to go to sea 
when I was sixteen years old, take that 
and multiply it by the older I am and 
the more I know and you'll have some 
faint notion of how much I want to 
go now." 

Mrs. Hooper sat in her chair very 
straight and still, her hands again 
clasped in her lap, when he spoke no 

"You're of age, John," she said. 

He came quickly up to her and 
caught her hands in his. 

"You helped me to go before," he 
said. "You've got to say I may go 
this time." 

She rose with a hurried movement. 
"I couldn't keep you then," she said, 
"and I can't keep you now," and with- 
drawing her hands from his clasp she 
went out into the kitchen and shut the 

As they sat at the supper table, the 
meal nearly over, Mrs. Hooper sud- 
denly asked : 

"Can you get your old ship back 

"I don't know," answered John. "No, 

probably not. I wish I hadn't been 
such a fool and had saved up my 
money. If I had five hundred pounds 
I'd buy a schooner of my own and 
ask no odds of anybody. But I don't 
worry about that. I'll get a command, 
all right. They know me pretty well, 
down there." 

A week later Mrs. Hooper stood on 
the porch bareheaded in the frosty, 
November sunshine, her hands clasped 
behind her, watching an express wagon 
loaded with two . great camphorwood 
chests as it rattled away from before 
the house. John came running up the 
steps from the walk, where he had 
helped in the loading. 

"I'm off !" he cried, taking his mother 
in his arms. 

She drew back a little and brought 
her hands forward. There was a 
bulky envelope in one of them. "This 
is for you," she said. 

"What?" John took it curiously and 
peered into it. It was full of green- 
backs, he caught sight of one hundred 
dollar denominations. "What is this, 

"It's the mortgage." She choked a 
little but recovered and went on. "I 
want you to have it. I want you to 
buy a ship of your own and call her the 
Lydia Hooper. The sea is your life, 
I know. I have dreamed of it, some- 
times. Be a good man and write to 
me. That's all I ask." 

He held her tight and kissed her fore- 
head before he could speak. 

"She'll be a good ship, Mother," he 

He stumbled down the steps and 
hurried off down the street. Mrs. 
Hooper turned and felt blindly for the 
door-knob. She entered the silent 
house and groped her way across the 
empty room to her chair by the win- 
dow — a frail, bent, gray, old woman. 

*£ *& 

The Biography of a Trout 


HAD you suddenly dropped down 
in Vermont at the time this 
story begins you would not 
have believed that it was midwinter. 
The proverbial January thaw was so 
thorough that the ice which covered 
the streams for two months had broken 
up and "gone out" in a freshet. The 
snow was still deep in the dense woods, 
but only a few patches were to be seen 
on the open hillsides. 

The wife of the mayor of a small 
city among the Green Mountains had 
just filled a bowl with water from the 
tap. In it she saw a little round thing 
no larger than a small pea and of a 
pale pink color, with two little dark 
spots on it. She took it in the palm 
of her hand and looked at it closely. 
The warmth in her hand caused some- 
thing in this strange little ball to move. 
The two spots moved and then the 
whole inside of the little ball seemed 
to move. When replaced in the bowl 
of water, after an hour or so, the little 
ball had split open and now had a 
tail. The tail wiggled and pushed the 
ball around in the bottom of the bowl ; 
then a shell-like covering dropped off 
and there was a little fish. 

Unlike larger fishes, it had a very 
big sac on its stomach which was al- 
most as large as the ball had been. 
The lady had never seen a newly born 
baby fish and did not know what to 
do with it. As it had come with the 
water, she put the bowl under the tap 
and letting the water drip into it, it was 
just what the baby fish needed. The 
room was warm but the fresh water 
from the tap keeps the little fellow 
cool and each drop carries with it into 
the bowl a bit of air. Fishes need air 
just as much as boys and girls do. 

The lady tried to feed the little thing, 

but it did not touch the crumbs of bread 
which she gave it. Most of the time 
it lay very quiet, but when disturbed 
it wiggled its tail and tried to swim. 
It could only circle around in the bot- 
tom of the bowl and even with much 
more space it could not do much better 
because the big sac is a clumsy load 
for it to carry. 

Now have you guessed that the little 
ball was a fish egg and the two little 
dark spots in the egg were the eyes of 
a baby fish? The little fish had been 
curled around the yolk in the egg and 
when the shell broke open it uncurled. 
First the tail stuck out of the crack 
in the shell, for you must know that 
it is the usual thing for fishes to come 
into the world tail first, otherwise they 
do not live. Our baby fish could not 
back away from the shell because its 
little fins were still inside of it. So 
it just wiggled its tail until the crack 
in the shell grew larger and then the 
shell fell off. 

The sac on its stomach is the yolk 
of the egg and is called the umbilical 
sac. Have you ever seen the yolk of 
a hen's egg? Well, eggs of fishes 
also have yolks, which become the 
food sacs of the fishes when they 
hatch. With some kinds of fishes this 
yolk or bread sac contains enough 
food to last from three to six weeks, 
and our baby fish is one of this kind, 
for it is a trout. 

But we are getting ahead of our 
story. Where did the egg come from? 
Have you heard of fish stories? Well, 
this is a true fish story. 

Away back on the hills is a fine trout 
stream made up of a number of little 
brooks which have their start still 
farther up in the hills. In the fall of 
the year when the leaves of the trees 




take on such brilliant hues the trout in 
the brooks also have bright colors. 
The male trout are the brighter, but 
both males and females have more 
vivid colors at this time than at any 
other. It is at this season that the 
trout gather, like children, in schools. 
Those in the lakes and ponds move to 
places where the water is not deep or 

wild at this season but it is best not 
to let them see you nor feel any jar 
on the banks. Now look sharply into 
the water. At first you see only the 
water and the bottom of the pool. 
Then something moves quickly as a 
fish darts at one of its mates ; another 
fish almost leaps out of the water and 
you feel just a bit of a sprinkle of cool 


towards the mouth of a stream, while 
those in streams gather in pools and 
move up against the current of water. 
Let us follow a school of trout which 
has just met at the mouth of a brook. 
Get down on your hands and knees 
and creep softly to the bank just 
where the water tumbles over a log 
into the pond. The fish are not very 

water on your nose ; then the two fishes 
become quiet. Now that your eyes 
have become used to the light in the 
water, beside the two frisky trout you 
see ten or twenty more. All of them j 
are heading toward the place where | 
the water gurgles over the log. 
Each fish slowly moves its fins back | 
and forth just enough to hold itself i 



Stacks oe egg and fry 

from drifting away with the current 
of water, and now and again one trout 
darts after another like children at 

But the trout are not playing. A 
Mr. Trout has sidled up to a Miss 
Trout and he wants the other fellows 
to keep away from his chosen mate. 
Sometimes the lady trout has many 
admirers and in such cases the one 
who can fight away the others claims 
her as his bride, so Mr. Trout has to 
fight more or less during all the trip 
up stream. 

The journeys of the trout usually 
occur at night, when they move up 
stream a little way until they find a 
nice, sheltered pool. Then follows a 

eriod of lazy but happy days spent in 
(this or other pools still farther up the 


They do not feel very hungry but 
still have appetite enough to snap at 
"nsects which may be so unfortunate 

s to drop on the water above them. 
ft is pleasant also to eat an angle 

orm which may have fallen into the 
ater from a crumbling bank. Now 

nd then a trout is deceived and strikes 

t a make-believe fly which some angler 

has dangled over the pool. The make- 
believe fly is fastened to a hook; and 
although he feels the prick of the hook 
in his jaw it does not pain him much; 
but he sees he is caught and struggles 
to escape. His mates scurry in all 
directions ; some hide under the banks, 
some rush up to the next pool, and 
others rush down stream. The fish on 
the hook rushes about in the deserted 
pool until he succeeds in winding the 
snell around a root. The excited an- 
gler pulls just a little too hard. The 
line breaks, leaving a short piece at- 
tached to the root but the trout is free. 
Quickly he rushes under the bank and 
hides his head with its torn jaw. We 
may imagine he is thinking how fool- 
ish he was and that he will not again 
be deceived by an artificial fly. But 
who knows whether he will not be the 
first one in the pool again to get caught 
on a hook? 

The angler on the bank has been do- 
ing some thinking about the good fight 
this trout made, and he can tell you 
about another trout which once got on 
his hook but which slipped back into 
the water when he was taking him 
off. However, his eye was torn out 
and remained on the hook. The an- 
gler had been told that the eyes of 
fishes make good bait; so he just left 
this eye on the hook and cast it into 

The hatching 



the pool. Soon he had another bite 
and when he landed a small trout he 
found it was the very fish which had 
lost its eye. We shall have to excuse 
the trout for being so greedy as to bite 
its own lost eye on the ground that he 
was a little fellow and did not know 
any better. I tell you about it in order 
to assure you that fishes apparently 
suffer little or no pain when hooked. 

Now where did we leave our trout? 
Oh, yes, he was hiding under the bank. 
Well, he does not mind the torn jaw 
much and soon looks about for his 
friends. One by one the school as- 
sembles again and Mr. Trout finds his 

The water in the little brook is grow- 
ing cooler every day and finally, when 
the stream swells with the rain until 
its banks are full, the whole school of 
trout moves up stream. A heavy rain, 
raising the water in the stream, is al- 
ways a signal for the fish to move on. 



More utti,e Fish 


The two in which we are interested 
are an odd-looking pair. Mrs. Trout 
is now five years old and weighs a 
pound. She was born in this brook 
and did not grow very fast until two 
years of age. Then she found her- 
self in a pond which had been made 
by a fisherman. 

There were deep places in the pond 
much like the pools in the brook, and 
there were shallow places where pond 
lilies and water plants grew. Here, 
too, the water was warmer in the sum- 
mer time and many insects laid their 
eggs in it or on the plants and these 
kept hatching out. The warmer the 
water the faster the insects hatched 
out. Among these were caddis worms, 
which turn into flies and rise to the 
top of the water and fly away — if they 
can — before a fish catches them. You 
will find some more about them 
farther on. All these insects and their 
eggs or larvae make food for the fishes. 

So Mrs. Trout had more room and 
more food and as a result she had 
grown into a fine, large trout when five 
years old. 

Mr. Trout is only a little over two 
years old and weighs only a quarter of 
a pound. It is really funny to see how 
fierce he can be when other trout come 



near his mate. Some of them are big 
fellows, but he drives them all away. 
He has lived the most of his life in the 
brook, where he must exercise a good 
deal in order to get a living. As a re- 
sult he is more active than the lazy- 
big fellows who loafed around in the 
still, deep waters of the pond. 

When Mr. Trout is not fighting 
away other fish he busies himself in 
making love to his mate. He does 
this by circling about over and under 

out in the gravel by Mr. and Mrs. 
Trout is their nest. In nest building 
the trout family prefer a hard and 
gravelly bottom, where they brush off 
all moss or other water plants, and 
any loose sticks and stones. Some- 
times they cannot find such a good 
place, and may have to dig a deep hol- 
low through thick weeds until they 
reach gravel, making a nest six or 
eight inches deep, surrounded by beau- 
tiful green water plants. In lakes, 

Packing trout eggs, Grand Mesa, Colorado 

er. Sometimes he bites her gently 

bout her throat as if trying to caress 

er just as a child does to his mother. 

They both like to rub their sides on 

he gravelly bottom, and, with an oc- 

:asional flirt of the tail, they make the 

)ebbles and gravel fly until the spot 

wer which they rest becomes a hollow, 

Ind quite clean and bright compared 

vith its surroundings. Perhaps it is not 

nown that many kinds of fishes have 

lests. This clean, bright spot hollowed 

where the bottom is mostly fine sand, 
they have been known to make nests 
a foot deep by rubbing away the sand, 
the pebbles settling to the bottom. 

At first Mr. and Mrs. Trout work 
on their nest only at night, but later 
on they become more absorbed and re- 
main on the nest during the day as 
well. Usually as they lay side by side 
their heads are looking in opposite 
directions — perhaps the more easily to 
watch the approach of enemies. At 



this time almost every living thing- 
is an enemy ready to eat the eggs that 
Mrs. Trout is about to lay. 

One evening, when rubbing over the 
gravelly nest, Mrs. Trout lays a lot 
of amber colored eggs called spawn. 

Then Mr. Trout swims over the nest, 
and expels a liquid called milt, which 
comes like a flash, and instantly 
spreads over the nest, giving a milky 
hue to the water, and then rapidly 
vanishes as it follows the current down 

All the eggs which are touched by 
the milt are made complete. Although 
there is more than enough milt to reach 
them all, much of it is carried away by 
the current, so that many eggs are left 

This process in nature is called fer- 
tilization, and the fertilization of fish 
eggs may be compared to that of 

The egg is to the fish what the seed 
is to the plant. The seed of the plant 
is not m complete until it has been 
united with the pollen. Bees and other 
insects when in search of honey shake 
off the pollen and carry it from one 
flower to another, thus bringing it into 
contact with the seed. The milt of the 
fish corresponds to the pollen of the 
flowers and it is carried to -the eggs by 
the water instead of by insects. 

Mrs. Trout does not lay all the eggs 
at one time and it is several days before 
the last egg has been deposited and 
she is ready to leave the nest. 

From the moment that Mrs. Trout 
makes her first deposit of eggs until 
this task has been completed there is 
great excitement among the inhabitants 
of the pool. There are not only a lot 
of idle fish hoping for an opportunity 
to seize any eggs which do not adhere 
to the nest and which may be carried 
away by the current, but there are also 
some which are very jealous of Mr. 
Trout and want to take his place by 
the side of Mrs. Trout. Thus Mr. 
Trout must not only furnish milt for 
each lot of eggs as soon as laid, but 
he must keep up the fight begun with 
his courtship. 

Most of the eggs adhere to the grav- 

elly ridge on the lower side of the nest 
and there become imbedded. Had not 
some of them floated away we might 
count about one thousand, but allowing 
for what are eaten — and even Mr. and 
Mrs.. Trout occasionally eat eggs which 
float away from the nest — perhaps five 
hundred are fertilized. It is more than 
likely that less than two hundred are 
destined to hatch into little fish and 
that the rest of them will soon die or be 

Now follows the strange part of the 
story, for Mr. and Mrs. Trout having 
performed their duties as they know 
them, leave the nest and no longer 
feel any interest in the eggs or in their 
children which may hatch from them. 
But that is the way of most cold- 
blooded fishes, — not to think any more 
of their own children than of other 
fishes'; indeed, if a baby fish should 
cross the path of Mr. and Mrs. 
Trout they would not stop to in- 
quire its parentage before making a 
meal of it if they happened to be hun- 
gry. So these cold-blooded parents 
gradually work their way, tail first, 
down stream, very likely robbing the 
nests of other trout as they go, until 
they find a congenial place to stay for 
the winter. Here we lose sight of 
them, for they became separated and, 
just like all the other trout, with no 
individual interest for us. 

Other trout which ascended the 
stream in the same school or in other 
schools pair off, make nests, and de- 
posit eggs on them just as did our Mr. 
and Mrs. Trout. This mating and lay- 
ing of eggs lasts for nearly two months. 
Before the season is over three other 
pairs of trout have cleared up the nest 
on which Mr. and Mrs. Trout left eggs. 
Each pair eat some of the eggs which 
become exposed while they are rub- 
bing over the nest. Thus you see that 
it is very difficult to keep track of a, 
family of trout, for we now have what 
remains of the eggs of Mr. and Mrs. 
Trout and of three other pairs of trout 
all on one nest. Let us see what be- 
came of them. 

All of the older trout leave that part 
of the stream and settle down in deeper 



pools in the main stream or in the 
pond from which the school started. 
The water flowing over the eggs grows 
colder and colder until the stream is 
covered with ice and snow. The cold 
water does not injure the eggs; it only 
puts off the time when they will hatch 
and the colder the water the longer it 

the nest of eggs is not without its 
enemies, for there are young trout 
born a year ago which must have some 
food. One of them can eat several 
eggs a day. Then there is a peculiar 
little fish called blob, chucklehead, 
darter, miller's thumb, star gazer, and 
a dozen other names indicative of his 


takes for the little fishes to develop and 
break through the eggs. In fact there 
are some advantages in the cold water, 
for fishes and other water animals 
which are fond of fish eggs are not so 
hungry or active during the winter 
when the streams are icy cold. Yet 

appearance or habits. This little fish 
of many names hides under the stones 
with his head out or lies on the gravel. 
Being of the same color as the bottom 
of the stream, he is not easily discov- 
ered and when anything good to eat 
floats toward him he opens his mouth 



and draws it in, or if necessary darts 
after it. As a result many little trout 
disappear in its capacious maw, and 
if it happens to have a home near a 
nest of eggs it does not wait for them 
to turn into little fishes, but greedily 
devours them. 

Then again there are many kinds of 
minnows in some trout streams; two 
kinds live in the stream where our nest 
is, and as they consider trout eggs a 
great delicacy, they eat as many as 
they can find. 

Last, but not least, the caddis worms 
are abundant in nearly all trout 
streams. Izaak Walton says, "Several 
countries have several kinds of cad- 
dises that indeed differ as much as dogs 
do; that is to say, as much as a very 
cur and a greyhound do." 

Caddis worms build curious little 
houses, shaped like a hollow cylinder, 
out of sticks, straw, pieces of bark, or 
sometimes of small pebbles, fitted to- 
gether as neatly as a mosaic. In these 
they live and hide themselves in times 
of danger. The boys call them stick- 
baits because they are used for bait 
and their homes often resemble small 
decaying sticks. When in search of 
food the worm extends its head and 
with front feelers drags the house along 
the bottom of the stream. You have 
read how they turn into flies and how 
Mrs. Trout enjoyed catching the flies 
as they rose to the top of the water. 
Mrs. Trout also enjoys the worms and it 
is fine play for her silently to dart up 
behind a caddis worm crawling along 
on the bottom, with a quick turn seize 
the head and shoulders in her mouth 
and shake it so violently that the little 
stone house falls off, and the worm 
slides a delicate morsel down Mrs. 
Trout's throat. 

But now the caddises have their re- 
venge upon Mrs. Trout, for they like 
nothing better than trout eggs and 
baby fish with umbilical sacs, like the 
one which came to the wife of the 
mayor, and many a fine meal they make 
off them. 

All these and many more forms of 
aquatic life are fond of fish eggs, so 
you will wonder that any eggs were 

left in the nest when the freshet came 
with the January thaw. 

Notwithstanding all these enemies 
some eggs survive and during all this 
time little fishes are developing inside 
of them until two little eye spots show 
through each amber colored shell, first 
very faintly and later on more plainly. 

Then the outline of the little fishes 
curled up in the shells can also be seen, 
at first of a whitish color and later of 
a distinct brown shade. 

It was at this stage that the January 
thaw caused the snow on the hills to 
melt and the water to pour into the 
little stream until it became a raging 
torrent and the nest of eggs was 
washed out. Some of them are 
smothered under the sand and debris 
but others find resting places. As one 
little egg goes whirling along in the 
foaming torrent it is sucked into a 
whirlpool ; it spins round and round 
and then all is dark but it rides rapidly 
along in the water and darkness, the 
passageway growing narrower and 
narrower, until with a final rush it 
comes again to daylight and falls 
through the tap into the tender hands 
of those whose table it is to grace, as 
you learned in the beginning of the 

It might have lived here for several 
weeks or until the absorption of the 
umbilical sac, but it happens that not 
far from the city is a fish hatchery 
where a paternal government makes a 
business of hatching and taking care 
of little fishes. 

The mayor's wife, full of curiosity 
over her discovery, calls in the fish 
man and he takes the little fellow to 
the hatchery. In the hatchery are 
many rows of troughs through which 
a gentle current of cold water is con- 
stantly flowing. Some of them con- 
tain thousands of eggs just like those 
laid by Mrs. Trout and little fish are 
hatching from them every minute. 

There are some troughs in which 
the eggs have all hatched; leaving a 
mass of fry from a few hours to a few 
days old, and all have big umbilical 
sacs or bread baskets where their 
stomachs ought to be. 



Into one of these troughs the fish 
culturist puts the little waif from the 
city. What a wriggling mass of fish 
it is to which this little stranger is 
introduced. Not until the trough is 
darkened by a cover do they become 

Every day the fish man looks over 
each trough to see how the eggs and 
fish are getting along. The minute a 
cover is removed the fry begin to 

In his daily rounds the fish man 
cleans the screens at the lower ends of 
the troughs placed there to prevent 
the escape of the fry. Otherwise they 
will become clogged with tgg shells 
and dead fish. 

Of course, there are some dead ones 
each day, for what else can be expected 
from 40,000 baby fish crowded into one 
trough 12 or 14 feet long and as many 
inches wide? There are many oddly 

'Picking" eggs at eiei/d station, Grand Mesa, Colorado 

wriggle — first one, then those next to 
him, and so the motion spreads until 
the entire mass is moving. Each one 
spins around on his portly abdomen, 
at the same time struggling to stem 
the current. Thus there is a tendency 
of the entire mass to move towards 
the head of the trough where the fall- 
ing water assists the whirling move- 
ment, and this the fish man describes as 
rhythm of motion. 

shaped little fishes which do not live 
after the bread basket is all gone, so 
the fish man picks these out — fishes 
with three heads or two heads and 
one body, Siamese twins, and hump- 
backs. Of these and other deformities 
too numerous to mention, the fish man 
always finds from ten to one hundred 
in every trough of fish. 

After a month or six weeks the um- 
bilical sacs have been so nearly emp- 



tied that you cannot see what has be- 
come of them, and all the time the fish 
have been growing stronger and larger. 
You might not notice the growth be- 
cause of the disappearance of the bread 
sacs, which are so prominent when the 
fish first pop out of the eggs. 

The troughs become overcrowded, 
and this is a favorable season of the 
year to plant some of the fry where 
they can seek natural food when they 
become hungry, and hungry they surely 
will be soon after the bread sacs have 
been absorbed. So one-half of the fry 
are taken from each trough, measured 
out just as you might measure a small 
dipper of berries, and placed in large 
cans of water. The fish man has first 
counted out one dipperful of fish, in 
order that he may know just how many 
he is distributing. Then, too, it is de- 
sirable for him to measure them, for 
he must be careful not to overcrowd 
the cans, or the fish will be made sick 
or will smother. The cans are loaded 
on to wagons and hauled to little spring 
brooks, where the fish are carefully dis- 
tributed, with the expectation that' as 
they grow larger they will work their 
way down into larger streams. 

You will perhaps wonder how the 
fish man can count a dipperful of wrig- 
gling fry. He first fills the dipper with 
the little fish until they crowd it full 
to the brim and there is very little 
room for any water. Then he empties 
them into a pan of water. All this is 

done so quickly that the little fellows 
do not suffer any injury from being 
crowded. While the fish are scattered 
in the pan of water, they are dipped 
out, a few at a time, by means of a 
small, flat net, and then counted as 
they are dipped. Having counted one 
dipperful, he uses it as a standard for 
measuring the others. There are other 
ways of getting at the number of small 
fish, but this is a quick and fairly ac- 
curate one. 

At the end of another week the fif- 
teen thousand fry in the trough with 
our orphan show signs of hunger by 
snapping at any particle floating on 
the water. Instead of wriggling about 
in the bottom of the trough, they are 
now full-fledged little fishes, swim- 
ming at various depths from the bot- 
tom to the top. 

Now is the critical time with the 
fry, for they must be fed several times 
each day. The food usually consists 
of liver, ground very fine and then 
strained, only the liquid part being 
suitable for the baby fish. This is scat- 
tered in the water, and most of the lit- 
tle fish learn to take it eagerly, but 
there are always some weaklings which 
do not eat and must be removed. At 
the end of ten days the fish have grown 
so rapidly that they are again thinned 
out, a part of them being placed in out- 
of-door troughs. 

(To be continued) 

The Laboring Man of To-Day 


Comparison of Wages and Cost of Living in the past Fifty Years 

A COMPARISON of the condi- 
tion of the laboring masses in 
1900 with that of fifty or sixty 
years ago redounds to the benefit of the 
working people of the present genera- 
tion. The working hours of the wage- 
earner are much shorter, his wages 
higher, his opportunities greater than 
those of his ancestors of fifty years ago. 
He is better able to provide his chil- 
dren with an education and certain ad- 
vantages of life, which things were al- 
most impossible a few years before the 
Civil War and for many years after. 
Whether the advent of organized labor 
or natural causes have played the more 
important part in the betterment of la- 
bor conditions is the question. There is 
no doubt that labor unions have proven 
an important factor in shortening labor 
hours and in raising wages. While the 
average wage-earner apparently enjoys 
the same comforts and advantages 
(which he had in 1900, how much longer 
:an he thrive under the existing condi- 
ion of affairs, where the cost of living 
s proportionally higher than the in- 
:rease of wages since 1900, and how 
nuch of his earnings can be laid by for 
|i rainy day, as prices for real necessi- 
ies of life were never higher, and they 
lave been soaring every day? 
Investigations among the woolen and 
otton mills from 1850 to i860 show 
hat seventy-five hours constituted an 
verage week's work, and the average 
ay for the operator per week was six 
seven dollars. The spinners in the 
Ikoolen and cotton mills were paid 
bout $25 per month, and pay day came 
nee in three months. In 1856, and for 
ome years after, the whistle blew at 

5 o'clock; breakfast was had from 6:45 
to 7:30 A.M.; dinner from 12 M. to 
12:45 P.M., and at 7:45 the day's work 
was over. On Saturday the mills closed 
at 5 130 P.M. In the summer season the 
hours of employment were from 6 A.M. 
to 12 o'clock, and from 12:45 to 6:30 
P.M., and on Saturdays the machines 
stopped at 5 o'clock. 

In 1866 a spinner in the woolen mills 
received forty dollars per month and a 
weaver twenty. In the late seventies 
the factory employes were summoned 
to work before 6 o'clock and twelve 
hours constituted a day's work. In 
1858 seventy-five cents a day was the 
average pay for a farm hand. Strange 
as it may seem, statistics show that 
while wages were extremely low, and 
the hours of labor long, before and 
some time after the Civil War, the 
actual cost of a few of the real necessi- 
ties of life was considerably more than 
it is to-day. While prices on all com- 
modities were excessively high during 
and just after the Civil War, yet prior 
to i860 flour was sold at $18 per bar- 
rel, tea at $1.20 per pound, hardwood 
$9.50 a cord, Franklin coal $16 a ton, 
Lehigh coal at $12 and $13, and kero- 
sene oil at 50 cents per gallon. In 
those days corporations conducted their 
own stores, where the emloyes were 
expected to purchase their goods. To- 
day the corporation store exists in some 

The question naturally arises : How 
could the laboring classes of forty or 
fifty years ago so husband their re- 
sources as to make both ends meet and 
keep out of debt? 

The child-labor law was not then in 




existence; consequently, the children 
worked in common with their parents. 
The employer of labor acted as a sav- 
ings bank for the family, and quite a 
handsome sum would be forthcoming 
to the employes on pay day. 

In the days before and after the Civil 
War the "butcher had no difficulty in 
getting rid of the low qualities of meat, 
while to-day he finds the laboring man 
purchasing many of his best cuts. 
Forty or fifty years ago those of very 
moderate circumstances were not pay- 
ing $18 per barrel for flour, but were 
using a much' cheaper cereal — rye meal 
— for bread. 

Tables taken from Massachusetts re- 
ports showing the fluctuation in wages 
in various important branches of trade, 
and retail prices for commodities be- 
tween i860 and 1897, indicate a higher 
wage rate in 1897 than in 1881, while 
a general decline appears beween 1872 
and 1897. 

In order to ascertain whether wages 
have really increased or declined, the 
prices of commodities and the purchas- 
ing power of money must be taken into 
account. From the report of "Statis- 
tics of Labor," a Massachusetts docu- 
ment published in 1897, it is noted that 
all articles under the head of "Grocer- 
ies" show lower prices in 1897 than in 
1881 with the single exception of 
"green Rio coffee," which shows an 
increase. Under the heading, "Pro- 
visions," lower prices in general are 
also shown, the exceptions being cer- 
tain grades of beef, veal cutlets and 
mutton chops. 

Lower quotations appear for fuel in 
1897 than in 1881 or 1872, and the 
same statement applies to dry goods. 
Men's bootwear was also less in 1897 
than in 1881 or 1872. Under the head 
of "Rents," the rates are considerably 
lower in 1897 than in 1872, and slightly 
higher in 1897 than in 1881. The board 
rates for men and women were lower 
in 1897 than in 1872, and for men 
slightly lower than in 1881. For 
women, however, the rates were 
slightly higher in 1897 than in 1881. 

It is plain, from what has been said 
as to the decline in prices, that for most 

commodities larger quantities were ob- 
tainable for a dollar in 1897 than in 
1881 or 1872. Some of the percentages 
of increase are very large, whether the 
figures for 1881 or 1872 be taken for a 
base; e. g., the quantity of flour pur- 
chased for one dollar shows an increase 
of 50 per cent, in 1897 as against that of 
1881, and an even greater increase as 
against that of 1872. The increase in 
the quantity of granulated sugar pur- 
chaseable for one dollar in 1897 as 
compared with 1881 was 963/2, and as 
compared with 1872, 114^2 per cent. 
The quantities of many articles of pro- 
visions, coal and dry goods thus pur- 
chaseable also show large percentages 
of increase. 

Upon the basis adopted by the con- 
gressional committee, which in 1892 
presented an elaborate report on wages 
and prices, the results indicate a de- 
crease in the price of groceries of 30 
per cent, in 1897 as compared with 
1881. Provisions show a decrease of 
18.53 P er cent, in 1897 as compared 
with both 1872 and 1881. 

The improvement in the condition of 
the laboring man up to 1900 can be 
easily and briefly explained. The chief 
causes of the advanced cost of living 
since then are doubtless more difficult 
to fathom and determine. Shorter hours 
of labor for the laboring people, gained 
through legislation, concessions of cap- 
ital and energy on the part of the labor 
unions, a more enlightened and intelli- 
gent workman, the large number of 
American workingmen who own their 
homes or other real estate — all bear 
witness to the improvement of the con- 
dition of the laboring man over that of 
twenty years ago. Increased prosperity! 
in the business interests of the United j 
States, steady employment of labor, ai 
general and healthy demand for our: 
goods abroad, the growth and upbuild-! 
ing of the great West, the gradual en-j 
lightenment and broadening throughj 
education of the laboring people, new; 
and important discoveries of minerals; 
(principally gold and copper), have alll 
been determining factors in bringing! 
to the laboring masses an improvement 
in their condition within the last quar- 



ter-century. Laws working detriment 
to labor, or at least not advantageous 
to its interests, have been gradually re- 
placed with legislation which tends 
more to ameliorate its condition with- 
out causing estrangement between it 
and capital. 

Several causes have determined the 
high cost of living to-day, and among 
them is the enormous increase in the 
production of gold, and the natural re- 
sult has been a great advance in prices. 
The advance in prices has not been 
confined to any one section of the civil- 
ized world, but it is world-wide in its 
operations. The London Economist says : 
"A bitter cry from far-away Buda- 
Pesth ! In no civilized country does 
the laborer and the skilled workman 
pay so much for the necessities of life 
ias in Hungary. Everywhere the 
masses of the people are insisting on 
being better housed, clothed and fed." 

Still another cause of the present 
high prices may be due to the practical 
exhaustion of the free public lands of 
the West; i. e., the tillage is declining 
in proportion to the number of people 
to be fed, which would inevitably pro- 
duce an upward tendency in the price 
of agricultural produce. Throughout 
the East, particularly New England, 
the rapid growth of cities has been due 
largely to a general exodus from the 
farms, leaving a disproportionately 
small part of the population on the 
farms to produce the food of the na- 
ion. The constant demand of the city 
opulation has tended greatly to ad- 
ance the prices of the articles of com- 
mon consumption. The price of milk 
as steadily advanced for years, as 
he city demand has increased, while 
he enormous consumption of eggs at 
he soda fountain has been a large fac- 
or in the advanced price of eggs. The 
"iddleman is blamed for high prices 
or the necessities of life, and it is 
ound that "butter sold at retail in Bos- 
on at 40 cents costs but 22 cents in 
ermont, and that a ready-made suit 
hich commands a retail price of $15 
osts but $7.37, of which the cloth, pre- 
umably from New England mills, 
osts only $2.60. The total cost of pro- 

ducing a woman's skirt is $4.85, yet it 
sells at retail for $10. For dress goods 
selling at retail at 70 cents per yard, 
only 39 cents is received by the manu- 
facturer." "In the decade from 1896 to 
1907 a tendency towards extravagance 
by rich and poor alike stimulated busi- 
ness and elevated prices. Hitherto the 
habit of the people had been along the 
line of careful saving, but to-day the 
enjoyment of comforts, even of lux- 
uries, is part of the every-day life of the 
so-called working classes, while more 
and more money is going into educa- 
tion, better attire, into good homes." 

Doubtless, one of the causes of the 
higher cost of living expenses over that 
of ten years ago comes from the short- 
ening of the hours of labor, with the 
same standard of wages maintained or 
increased. This can well be illustrated 
in the government of a town or city. If 
a town or city which has been employ- 
ing day laborers at a fixed wage for ten 
hours a day so amends its by-laws that 
eight hours shall constitute a day's 
work, the natural consequence will be 
that it costs a little more to run a town 
or city, and the extra burden is borne 
and felt by the taxpayer, who is taxed 
a little more on -his personal property 
and real estate. The same holds true 
in the mills and factories. 

Compared with ten or even five years 
ago, famine prices now prevail, and the 
deplorable condition of affairs is going 
to hit especially hard the day laborer, 
unskilled mechanic, the clerk in the 
bank or store, the salaried man, and the 
girls and women in department stores. 
Wages have not increased within the 
past ten years commensurate with the 
great increase in prices of food and 
clothing. It really seems a preposter- 
ous statement to make, but a careful 
analysis of statistics shows that it is no 
exaggeration to say that it takes almost 
85 cents to-day to pay for what 50 cents 
would buy ten years ago ; e. g., iet us 
compare the prices of a few important 
commodities of to-day with those of 
fifty years ago. 

Ten years ago you could go into a 
country store and buy a barrel of flour 
for $5.80; now the same brand costs 



$7.25; beans that now cost 15 cents a 
quart brought 7 cents in 1899; corn- 
meal to-day costs the same as ten years 
ago (this is some consolation) ; kero- 
sene oil is about 40 per cent, higher to- 
day than in 1899; roast beef in 1899 
cost the consumer 142-3 cents, as 
against 28 cents to-day; the best rump 
ten years ago was worth 25 cents — to- 
day it is worth 35 cents; corned beef, 
the "poor man's meat," has almost 
doubled, from 9 to 16 cents ; veal fore- 
quarters worth 13 cents now bring 22 
cents; fresh pork has jumped from 10 
to 16 cents; smoked hams from 13 to 
20 cents; sausages from 11 to 15 cents; 
lard from 8 to 16 cents. The brand of 
butter that sold for 26 cents now brings 
close to 40 cents; milk was 5 and 6 
cents then, now 7, 8, 9 and 10 cents. 
Coal is up, wood is up ; gas as fuel and 
light holds its own. 

In the clothing line, shirting ten 
years ago at 8 cents was thought dear ; 
now you call it a good trade at 15 cents 
a yard. Brown sheeting was 8 cents, 
now it is at least three times that, or 25 
cents a yard ; bleached sheeting was 9 
cents, now it is 36 cents ; ticking was 1 1 
cents, now it is 16 cents. 

Shoes are from 25 to 50 cents a pair 
higher, or if, for trade reasons, the price 
holds the same,the quality has deterior- 
ated,andthesamemightbesaid of cloth- 
ing. Whileitisquitepossibletobuy suits 
of clothing from $10 to $20 ready-made, 
the material must be largely of cotton 
or "shoddy." On account of the high 
tariff on wool it would be almost im- 
possible to produce an all-wool, ready- 
made suit for less than $25 or $30. Un- 
der the Wilson bill, with free wool, it 
was quite possible to buy a tailor-made 
suit for $30; the same goods to-day 
made up costs about $50. 

One very important commodity — oil 
— is really cheap to-day, even at 13 
cents per gallon, compared with thirty 
or forty years ago, when it sold for 40 
or 50 cents a gallon at retail. Yet 
within ten or fifteen years this same 
commodity sold as low as 6 or 8 cents 
a gallon. 

Henry Cabot Lodge thinks that high 
prices are not made by the tariff, and 

the world's prices have been advancing 
for the past fifteen years. He further 
states that "in manufactured articles 
some are cheaper here than abroad, be- 
cause inventive skill and domestic com- 
petition have brought them down. 
Other articles made here cost more, 
than elsewhere, because the labor costs 
more, and just there is the whole tariff 

Other writers on the economic ques- 
tion think differently. Professor Harry 
Thurston Peck, in "Twenty Years of 
the Republic," in writing of the after- 
effects of the McKinley bill, which be- 
came a law October 1, 1890, states that: 
"Everywhere the pinch of higher prices 
was quickly felt, while no increase in 
wages was perceptible." 

It is fair to state that wages were 
generally increased throughout the 
country after the passage of the Mc- 
Kinley bill, but not in proportion to 
the increased cost of living. 

While wages fell off generally and 
perceptibly during the second adminis- 
tration of Grover Cleveland, from 1893 
to 1897, the purchasing power of the 
dollar became much enhanced, and 
most of us can remember how really 
cheap the real necessities of life 
amounted to during the Cleveland ad- 
ministration. The hard times and panic 
of 1893 will ever be remembered by 
those who lived in that period. Busi- 
ness was generally stagnant in all 
trades and professions; mill machinery 
was silent for months ; failures and sus- 
pensions followed one another; and 
when confidence was finally restored, 
business was conducted along more 
careful and conservative lines than ever 
before. The American people were re- 
markably blessed in having for their 
President during that panicky period a 
man of the honesty, ability and cour- 
age of Grover Cleveland. It was he 
who, on account of an almost depleted 
treasury, inherited from the previous 
administration, was compelled to issue 
bonds to maintain the credit of the na- 
tion. Early in 1894 the government 
gold fund had sunk to $70,000,000, 
against which there was outstanding 
nearly $500,000,000 of paper money, all 



of it, according to the Cleveland policy, 
redeemable upon demand in gold. This 
step — the issue of bonds — had been 
contemplated by President Harrison at 
the close of his administration, for the 
drain upon the gold reserve had begun 
even then; but the necessity had been 
postponed by Secretary Charles Foster, 
who got a temporary loan of gold — 
about $8,000,000 — from a group of New 
York bankers. Undoubtedly the slow 
progress of the Wilson bill prolonged 
the feeling of uncertainty in the busi- 
ness world and depressed all forms of 
industry. The Wilson bill became a law 
August 28, 1894, without the signature 
of the President. Mr. Cleveland, in a. 
letter made public afterwards, thought 
the Wilson act better in some of its 
provisions than the existing tariff law. 
The Wilson bill, as enacted, was far 
from a free trade bill, as some orators 
falsely preach, effecting an average re- 
duction of duty less by 11 per cent, 
than that of the McKinley tariff Mr. 
Cleveland's idea of a tariff measure was 
to give American manufacturers free 
raw materials, enabling them to pro- 
duce as cheaply as the foreigner, and 
hence enhance the market for Ameri- 
can-made goods, and that tariff charges 
should be reduced upon the necessities 
of life. A measure embodying these 
ideas, the Wilson bill, passed the 
House, but when it emerged from the 

I Senate it had been so amended and 
modified that its original character was 
almost completely destroyed. Coal, 
iron ore, lumber and sugar were re- 
moved from the free list altogether, 
leaving wool and copper the only raw 
materials to be let in untaxed. While 
in the House of Representatives of 
1893-94 there was a Democratic ma- 
jority, the Senate was more evenly di- 
vided, having only a slight Democratic 

[majority. Mr. Cleveland was probbaly 
not the most popular man with the 
United States Senate during his presi- 
dency. He had enemies in his own 
party, and because four or five of the 
Democratic senators allied themselves 
with their colleagues they were en- 
abled to so cripple the Wilson bill as to 
make it practically unrecognizable as a 

tariff reform measure. The practical 
defeat of this measure was undoubtedly 
one of the keenest disappointments in 
Mr. Cleveland's political tenure of 

The heaviest deficit under President 
Cleveland's administration ($69,000,- 
000 in 1893-1894) occurred while the 
McKinley act was still in force, show- 
ing plainly enough that the Wilson act 
was in nowise responsible for the loss 
of the revenue from 1893 to J 895. 
Soon after President McKinley was in- 
augurated he called Congress together 
to restore the "high protective tariff," 
in spite of the fact that the treasury 
showed an actual surplus of nearly 
$9,000,000. However, the question was 
not one of revenue. The old protected 
industries were crying for the favors 
which they had formerly enjoyed. The 
Dingley bill became a law July 24, and 
on the whole it resembled the McKin- 
ley act of 1890, though the average 
rate of duty on imports was slightly 
increased. The trusts and highly-pro- 
tected industries were, of course, de- 

The Payne-Aldrich bill, supposedly 
a step towards revision of the tariff 
downwards, was enacted into a law in 
the midsummer of 1909, and the trusts 
and highly-protected industries are still 
hugging themselves with glee. The 
Payne-Aldrich act, as far as it may op- 
erate to lower the prices of manufac- 
tured goods and the real necessities of 
life, promises to be a farce and a sub- 
terfuge. While the bill provides a mod- 
erate reduction on various articles of 
daily consumption, it seems as if the 
protected interests had been looked 
after very faithfully and carefully at 
Washington, and that material reduc- 
tion in certain articles, while making 
good reading and having a tendency to 
fool the public, still keeps those articles 
safely protected from foreign competi- 
tion. The writer has dwelt at some 
length on the tariff question, because 
he firmly believes that herein lies one 
of the main causes of the high cost of 
living, and that a high, protective tariff 
does not mean the greatest good to the 
greatest number. 



We are surrounded with a tariff wall 
so high and impregnable that we are 
apt to come to industrial war with 
other nations. Germany is already dis- 
criminating against our meat products, 
while England, which has been pros- 
perous under "free trade" for years, is 
agitating the tariff question through 
the Unionist party. It would not be at 
all surprising to see England adopt a 
moderate tariff within the next few 

When wool was admitted free of 
duty under the Wilson act, it was pre- 
dicted that the sheep industry would 
be ruined in the United States. The 
sheep industry in England has enjoyed 
almost uninterrupted prosperity for 
years under free trade. American man- 
ufacturers, besides using all the wool 
of this country, are obliged to import 
as much more. 

Sugar is a product of Louisiana, 
Porto Rico and the Philippine Islands. 
England does not produce sugar, yet 
this important article of consumption 
is sold as low, if not lower, there than 
here. Let us take the case of tin. The 
high tariff excludes this necessary arti- 
cle from Wales, and the domestic man- 
ufacturer gets the exclusive benefit. 

A comparison of the cities of De- 
troit and Windsor (just over the bor- 
der from Detroit) furnishes an exam- 
ple of the difference in cost of living. 
In Windsor the best butter is 28 cents 
a pound; eggs 34 cents a dozen; beef 
30 per cent, less ; pork and bacon 7 
cents lower; vegetables are cheaper, 
also poultry. As a whole, it costs 25 
per cent, less to live in Windsor than it 
does across the river in Detroit. The 
tariff on each article, if brought into 
the United States, just about accounts 
for the difference in price. 

The original principle of protective 
tariff in this country meant the pro- 
tection of our resources and energies 
against foreign competition. 

The whole system of the Payne-Ald- 
rich bill is one by which not the coun- 
try at large is profited, but certain 

The writer has found from experi- 
ence that in some localities in New 

England the employes in mills and fac- 
tories are better housed and clothed 
and better paid than in other localities. 
In the smaller towns, as a rule, rents 
and commodities are lower, and wages, 
if anything, a trifle higher, than in the 
cities. In the larger cities and towns, 
where, as a rule, the big woolen and cot- 
ton mills are hived, on account of a 
plentiful supply of help, labor is cheap, 
and the wages are apt to be lower 

There has been a remarkable influx 
of a mixed foreign population into the 
cities within the past ten years, princi- 
pally of Slavs, Poles, Hungarians, Rus- 
sians and Armenians. 

In its present condition this class of 
labor lowers the standard of living 
among the working people, as well as 
the standard living wage. 

During the panic of 1907-1908 wages 
suffered most notably. There was a 
wide curtailment in the production of 
manufactured articles ; mills and fac- 
tories ran on short time, and wages 
were reduced quite generally all over 
the United States. Now that prices 
have recovered, and in some cases of 
commodities have soared beyond the 
prices of the early months of 1907, have 
zvages increased proportionately to meet 
the demand? 

A report issued by the New York 
Association for Improving the Condi- 
tion of the Poor shows that among 1000 
men who had been compelled to ask aid 
the average yearly wage at full time 
varied from $525 to $515, and these 
were strong, able-bodied men with 
lamilies, desirous of work, the percent- 
age of skilled and unskilled laborers 
being about half and half. 

A recent study of economic condi- 
tions in New York city under the Sage 
Foundations fixed $800 as the sum nec- 
essary for a decent standard of living 
for a family of five or six (the average 

"Another investigation, conducted by 
the Federal Bureau of Labor at Wash- 
ington, shows the average income of 
T415 workmen in the North Atlantic 
States to have been $834. Against this 
average yearly income is placed an ex- 
penditure of $778, leaving an apparent 



balance of some $50 for the annual sur- 
plus; but as the Washington investi- 
gations include a large majority of 
skilled workmen, the conclusion has 
not the force or pertinence of the New- 
York inquiry/' 

Undoubtedly, it costs more to live 
than it ever did, and, while the house- 
keeper and storekeeper will never 
agree as to how much it costs, they 
both probably are of the opinion that 
people are living in greater comfort 
and luxury than ever before. 

The workman may scoff when told, 
even by the Secretary of Agriculture, 
that "the average laborer is to-day liv- 
ing better than Queen Elizabeth did in 
her time." Secretary Wilson had just 
returned to Washington from a month's 
vacation on his Iowa farm, and was 
much impressed by the luxury in which 
the farmers lived. In the secretary's 
opinion, the workingman is inclined to 
live high, too. 

"Take the meat bills of the laborer in 
Washington to-day," he said. "You will 
find that they eat meat three times a 
day — most of them — and, what is more, 
they are not contented with any kind ; 
they want the best cuts. They can af- 
ford them. As a result, the price of 
meat is away up." 

From opinion gathered from whole- 
sale grocers in Boston, food necessities 
to-day, compared with five years ago, 
show the following increase : Beef, 30 
per cent. ; butter, 20 per cent. ; poultry, 
20 per cent. ; eggs, 20 per cent. ; cheese, 
20 per cent. ; potatoes, 20 per cent. 

A mercantile agency announces that 
the cost of living is 49 per cent, more 
than in 1896; i. e.: 

"The strain of higher, prices for raw 
products," says Bradstreets, "is not 
only being felt by the manufacturers, 
who are in turn forced to advance 
prices on finished goods, but it is also 
inducing demand for higher wages by 

employes, who are using the increased 
cost of living as a basis for enhanced 

"Notwithstanding the increased cost 
of living, Boston savings banks gained 
5.24 per cent, in deposits last year, the 
total amount on hand October 31 being 
$232,125,000, or nearly as much as the 
savings banks of the Western and Pa- 
cific States combined had in 1908. 
Some people's income have more than 
kept pace with their outgo." 

The high cost of living caused by a 
prohibitive tariff wall, the intricacies 
and inefficiency of the Payne-Aldrich 
bill, "reciprocity with Canada," and the 
vetoing of an eight-hour law applying 
to public employers by a Republican 
Governor, were the main issues upon 
which the Democratic orators expati- 
ated and brought to the attention of 
the voters in Massachusetts in the fall 
election of 1909, and that the people are 
considering these questions is evident 
from the great reversal of the state vote 
of 1908. In IQ08 the Republican nom- 
inee for Governor was elected by 60,000 
plurality and his running mate by 96,- 
000. In 1909 the Democratic party, 
thoroughly organized and united, put 
forward a representative ticket and 
came within 7000 to 8000 votes of elect- 
ing both Governor and Lieutenant- 

These facts show clearly enough that 
the people are thinking for themselves 
these days, and that while a boom in 
general business may redound to the 
benefit of the few, and a partisan press 
may cry "Prosperity," yet it does not 
solve the problem of a high cost of liv- 
ing nor amelioration of the conditions 
of the great mass of our laboring popu- 
lation, which problem should call for 
most careful consideration and earnest 
action on the part of our most humane 
and public-spirited citizens and philan- 


A Typical Yankee Bird 


TOOT, toot— toot, toot, I come, 
I come ; make way, make way," 
sounds a joyful shout as a grey- 
blue arrow shoots across the snowy 
field. "Toot, toot, I say, I say," the an- 
swering calls ring out on the crisp 
March air. 

All the senses of our forest kin being 
so much more 
highly developed 
than our own, 
these jolly jays 
have perceived a 
hint of spring in 
the air, which is 
in nowise re- 
vealed to our 
duller senses, and 
are exulting i n 
their discovery. 
There goes the 
troop of eight 
merry blue- 
coats. Watch 
them clutch the 
bare boughs, 
jump up and 
down and shout 

The jay is a 
bird with a 
character. Some 
of the most emi- 
nent authorities 
o n t h e subject 
assure us that he 
and his crow 

cousins possess larger brains and more 
wit than any other members of the 
feathered tribe. Certain it is that blue- 
coat is a philosophic fellow and read- 
ily adapts himself to all manner of 
hardships and privations for the sake 
of remaining in his northern home 
throughout the year. The very fact 

Photograph hy Charles P. Price 

Our pet Jay on a favorite perch 

of his choosing to brave our severe 
winters is greatly to his credit. 

The jay has many enemies, more 
perhaps than any other feathered New 
Englander. When autumn arrives, 
with its surcease from toil and its 
bountiful tables spread everywhere by 
nature's lavish hand, Sir Blue-Coat's 
misdeeds are for- 
gotten — or for- 
given — and he is 
received i n t h e 
bestsociety. This 
is truly the birds' 
playtime. The 
cares and respon- 
sibilities of par- 
enthood are 
over for the year 
and they feast 
and frolic to their 
hearts' content. 
Their autumn 
songs have a dif- 
f e r e n t quality 
from their spring 
raptures. Less 
ardent, but not 
less sweet, are 
these soft songs 
of thanksgiving. 
During the 
nesting season 
the garrulous 
blue-coat has 
been silent as a 
Trappist monk, 
and Madam Jay 
has talked to her babies in the softest 
of gurglings. Well they know that it 
would never do to betray, by ever so 
slight a sound, the whereabouts of 
their most precious possession — ■ the 
nest of brown-spotted eggs, or the cradle 
of helpless young. In the autumn the 
jays seem to feel that they must com- 



pensate for their long silence, and, like 
imprisoned savages set free, with wild 
war-whoops these handsome scamps 
dart across the meadows and flit about 
the forest. They resemble the Indian 
in their vanity, their love of finery and 
their predacious habits. 

Emulating their industrious neigh- 
bors, the squirrels and field-mice, they 
make a pretence at laying up a winter 
store of food, but it rarely serves for 
imore than a quick lunch now and then, 

They have a habit of frequenting the 
pinyon trees, and burying in the ground 
large numbers of pine nuts, which 
eventually grow into trees. Anyone 
who chooses may go into a woodlot, or 
even a backyard where there are oak 
trees, in early autumn, and watch 
the jays pluck the acorns, fly with 
them to some tree at quite a distance 
(loudly tooting all the way, as if to 
advertise their good work), and wedge 
them into cracks or crotches. Mr. For- 

Photograph by Ernest Harold Baynes 


hen blue-coat happens to remember 
here he has deposited a nut. He is 
articularly fond of acorns and chest- 
uts, and no one is more clever at 
pening a chestnut burr than this for- 
st rogue. 

j The bluejay is a planter of trees, in- 
advertently, of course; yet this is a 
'act to be set down on his credit side. 
Ln old wood-chopper assures us that 
be jays originally planted thousands 
If the trees now growing in Arizona. 

bush, state ornithologist for Massachu- 
setts, tells us that he came across a 
young pine tree growing in the fork of 
a maple, ten feet from the ground, and 
there were no other pine anywhere 
near. There is no doubt but this was 
the work of a mischievous blue-coat. 

How do the birds that brave New 
England winters live through the ter- 
rible storms that are sure to visit us 
during the inclement season? It has 
been truly said that the bird has not 



where to lay his head. The evergreens 
are Nature's hostelries for the home- 
less ones, and to some thicket of pine 
or cedar they usually betake them- 
selves on the approach of a storm. But 
this is not always the case. One Janu- 
ary morning, a few years ago, a severe 
northeast snowstorm set in, with the 
mercury only four degrees above zero. 
By noon it was raging with terrific 
force. At the south side of my home 
stands a group of birches and white 
oaks. One of the latter, still clothed 
in its garb of withered leaves, stretched 
a branch toward the house, which 
reached to within a couple of feet of a 
chamber window. Happening to glance 
from this window about two o'clock, I 
saw a bluejay nestled cosily among the 
brown leaves, one little twig just above 

Photograph hy B. S. Bowdish 

A Jay's cradle 

his head forming a canopy. His feath- 
ers were fluffed out and his bright eyes 
peeped confidently at us. As the day 
waned, the storm increased Twice the 
jay stood up and shook off the snow 
which had drifted over him, and set- 
tled himself in as comfortable a posi- 
tion as the circumstances, would allow. 
How many times I wakened during 
that night to think of the little corpse, 
in its blue winding-sheet, which I 
should find beneath my window in the 
morning! As soon as it was light 
enough to see I looked apprehensively 
at the ground. No small, white mound, 
with a blue feather sticking through 
here and there, revealed itself. Eagerly 

I glanced up and there, still clinging to 
the branch, his eyes as bright, his spirit 
as undaunted as ever, sat my brave bird. 
Who could help admiring such courage 
as he displayed? By eight o'clock the 
snow had ceased falling and a broad 
beam of sunshine shot through the 
parting clouds. I had the pleasure of 
seeing blue-coat, after a final shake, 
spread his wings, and, with a joyful 
shout, sail away in search of his break- 
fast, apparently no whit disturbed by 
the strenuous twenty-four hours he 
had just passed through. 

Many persons assert that the jay is a 
robber, or cannibal, even. There was 
so much agitation among the farmers 
and the rural population in general that 
a few years ago our national govern- 
ment took up the subject and made an 
investigation. The stomachs 'of three 
hundred jays were examined during 
the nesting season. Out of this large 
number only three contained traces of 
the egg-shells of small birds, and but 
two the remains of nestlings. It was 
found that j6 per cent, of the jay's diet 
was vegetable, and of the 24 per cent, 
of his animal diet a large part consisted 
of injurious insects, such as caterpil- 
lars, wasps, grasshoppers and beetles. 

The jay has been a great aid to our 
state entomologists in exterminating 
the overwhelming hordes of brown-tail 
and gypsy moths. Not only does he 
eat the caterpillars in the open, but I 
have seen him poke his inquiring beak 
beneath the burlap petticoats, which 
now adorn most of our shade and fruit 
trees, and secure the clusters of gypsy 
larvae and cocoons. He is especially 
fond of the pupae of these moths, and 
regards a bunch of the juicy morsels 
with the same feeling that we should 
devour a luscious bunch of grapes. 
What if blue-coat does steal a little 
corn or filch a few berries now and 
then? Does he not more than compen- 
sate for his pilferings by the good he 
does the farmer and the pleasure he 
affords the farmer's wife and children? 
How his constant presence, his cheer- 
ful tootings and his lively antics 
brighten the dreary winter days ! 

Blue-coat is an altruist, ready with- 



out an instant's hesitation to take up 
the cause of any bird in the community 
in which he lives, even if it be at the 
risk of his own life. One morning in 
May I heard the unmistakable alarm 
cries of the jays, and harried out to see 
what was amiss. In one of the tall oaks 
at the back of the house an enormous 
crow sat on the edge of a robin's nest, 
calmly devouring the blue eggs, while 
the robins cried piteously, and the jays, 
with angry screams, darted at him 

One certainly would not attribute to 
the jay family any great skill in the 
musical' line, yet were he to make a 
careful study of the Corvidae he would 
find that some members of the group 
possess remarkable vocal ability. Did 
you ever hear a jay talking, either to 
himself, to a companion, or speaking 
in a jay council? Truly, I know of no 
bird who seems to approach so closely 
to having a language of his own as does 
this garrulous fellow. Many persons 

'hotograph by Wilbur F. Smith 

Madam Jay inspecting her completed nest 

rom all sides. He was forced to leave 
is repast unfinished, and as he started 
or the woods he was pursued by the 
obins and jays, the latter darting and 
ecking him as rapidly as possible. I 
ave seen an enormous crow van- 
ished by a single jay in mid-air ; the 
atter, so much quicker and more agile 
a movement than the former, dropping 
n him from above and pecking at him 
ill he was glad to seek shelter in a 
neighboring tree. 

know only his harsh "jay-jay" scream 
— his alarm cry or his toot of triumph. 
Others are aware that he is a good 
mimic, sometimes uttering a hawk's 
cry so perfectly that the birds who hear 
it hasten to cover. Blue-coat is so full 
of mischief that this performance 
causes him huge delight. 

I believe the people who have heard 
a jay sing in a clear, musical voice a 
truly charming little song are few and 
far between. It was my good fortune 



Madam Jay with her babes 

one June to be presented with a young 
jay, which had been blown from the 
nest during a high wind. The bird was 
uninjured and readily adapted himself 
to the changed conditions which life 
with a human foster-mother necessi- 
tated. Before the end of a week he 
was following me about the house and 
grounds like a devoted puppy, and 
great was his delight when I crawled 
beneath the piazza to capture daddy- 
long-legs for him. How gayly he 
tripped up to receive each one from my 
fingers as I called to him. 

Every morning I spent a half-hour 
before breakfast practicing singing. 
This performance interested the little 
jay immensely, and as soon as he heard 
the first notes struck on the piano he 
hastened to the parlor, settled himself 
comfortably on the lower rung of a 
chair and listened most intently. Be- 
fore long he began making the most 
ludicrous attempts at singing that one 

can imagine, but he improved, daily, 
and by the end of his third week of 
practicing his performance was really 
remarkable. He improvised as he sang, 
but every now and then, in the midst 
of a delicious warble, he startled us by 
uttering a savage scream, which 
seemed not to mar the effect of his 
song in the least from the jay stand- 
point. Certain sounds and certain 
tunes always moved him to express his 
feelings in song; thunder storms, the 
whirr of the sewing machine, the fau- 
cet when running full force. James 
Hogg's "Skylark" was an especial fa- 
vorite of the young jay, as were also 
selections from Mendelssohn's "Nine- 
ty-Fifth Psalm," "Dixie" and "Bonnie 

I have heard that the jays are espe- 
cially kind to the old and infirm mem- 
bers of their tribe, feeding them, lead- 
ing them to water and warning them 
of danger. This I cannot vouch for, 



but I have seen a jay fly to my ears of 
corn, tied among the trees, fill his beak 
with the yellow kernels, flit to another 
jay who sat at her ease on a fence near 
by, and in a most gallant manner pass 
her the kernels one by one, till she had 
devoured them all, and then return and 
bring her a second beakful. 

Why is it, I wonder, that so many of 
the birds, jays among them, continue 
to feed their young when the children 
have grown to be larger than their par- 
ents, and are entirely competent to 
provide for themselves? This sum- 
mer I watched a pair of jays who 

seemed to have assumed a double bur- 
den, for between every two beaksful 
of food brought to their young, who 
had left the nest, these devoted blue- 
coats stole a few moments to break 
dead twigs from the oak trees to weave 
into a new nest which they were has- 
tening to complete in preparation for a 
second brood. 

I think if one should say to me, 
"Your feathered friends are to be de- 
stroyed. You will never see them more. 
From among them you may choose one 
to remain," that one should be the blue- 

Photograph by Wilbur F. Smith 


( t 

Chile Trouble" 


HAS I ever seed any trouble? 
'Deed I is !" replied Mammy, 
in answer to Miss Car'line's 
friend, who was seated on the op- 
posite side of the laundry table, 
and was watching mammy as she 
slowly folded the clean clothes after 
she had sprinkled them from a large 
bowl of water beside her. " 'Deed I is ! 
An' my cup is done overflow'd wid it 
mo' den once. I done 'sperience it in 
both war an' peace, an' it come jes as 
nateral to me in one as de yuther. May 
be yo' don' know nuthin' 'bout dem 
darksome days when two big armies 
come in collision wid one 'nother an' 
didn't leave nuthin' but dissolution in 
dyah tracks an consternation ev'ry- 
where. But dat is all over now an' de 
Bible tells us, 'Let de dade bury de 
dade.' De grass is done grow'd an' 
covered it all up ; we's done shet our 
'eyes an' put dem times behin' us, an' 
mos' all dem dat suffered den is done 
gone down to peaceful graves. De peo- 
ple has riz up from dyah prostration ; 
dyah ain't no mo' weepin' nor gnashin' 
uv teeth kaze de sun is shinin' in dyah 
do's ag'in. Da has took dyah harps 
frum de willow trees an' is singin' de 
ole songs uv Zion ag'in. 

"But yo' can't allurs forgit, no mat- 
ter how hard yo' try. My ole Marster 
never did, an' after de war wuz over 
nobody didn't never durst mention it 
in his presence. But 'twa'n't no won- 
der, kaze my ole Marster had trouble 
same as de sparks dat fly upwards, only 
da wan never 'stinguished, which is 
most liable to us all. He sade hisself 
dat his cup wuz full of nuthin' but 
dregs up to the ve'y brim. 

"I allurs thought he mout hev lived 
up against all dat if yuther trouble 
hadn't pressed so hard upon him, kaze 

he wuz one uv de peacefulest, content- 
edest, happiest men yo' ever seed. He 
wuz allurs playin' wid de younger chil- 
lun, an' goin' on expeditions wid de 
older ones, 'specially Miss Virginia. 
Miss' 'Lizabeth had been goin' roun' 
wid young Mr. Carter ever since da 
wuz chillun together, an' she wuz 
'gaged to be married to him off an' on 
frum dat time till she married him. So 
she didn't take da same intrus' in 
things dat Miss Virginia did, 'ceptin' 
in de intermediate times when she 
done broke off her 'gagement; den 
she wuz ready to jine in wid every 
thing goin' on, and wuz de fuss to lean 
out de winder when de serenaders 

"In dem days de girls 'gin to have 
beaux soon as da enter da teens, an' da 
didnt' pay no 'tention to de governess 
when she try to tighten de reins. When 
da come home from boardin' school an' 
bring yuth^rs wid um, de young men 
couldn't do 'nough for dyah pleasure. 
Gittin' up ridin' parties an' sendin' over 
dyah bes' horses fur de visitors to ride, 
an' Vitin' um to crabin' an' dancin' 
parties, an* goin' sailin', an' I don't 
know what all. Sometimes at night, 
when yo' soun' a-sleep, yo' heah suthin' 
wakin' yo' up like music; den me an' 
Tilly would jump up from our pallets 
on de flo' an' help de ladies slip on dyah 
dressin' gowns. We didn't make no 
light, but peep out de winder an' see in 
de moonlight de horses tied to de trees, 
an' shadows under de winder an' voices 
singin' suthin' 'bout 'Come Wid Me, 
Love,' an' 'How Can I Eeave,' an' all 
dem kind uv songs. 

"De girls clasp dyah han's an' whis- 
per, 'Ain't it pretty?' an' 'Who does 
yo' think they are?' an' da name fuss 
one an' den de yuther, till de serenaders- 



come to de las' one, 'Farewell, My 

"Sometimes ole Marster open de do' 
an' let urn in to git a taste uv wine an' 
brandy dat wuz allurs standin' in de 
decanters on de sideboard. Dem curt'ny 
wuz happy times," Mammy said, medi- 
tatively. "Mars John had learned so 
fast dat he cotched up wid his tutorer 
an' wuz sont off to school, but it were 
'tirely indifferent wid de girls. Miss 
'Lizabeth wuz mostly occupied wid Mr. 
Carter, an' Miss Virginia wuz con- 
stant wid her father. He was mighty 
proud uv her an' well he mout be, fur 
she was a perfect beauty. Ev'ry body 
know'd it, an' tole her so, but it didn't 
spile her one bit. She wuz allurs ready 
to help every body, white or colored, 
an' singin' 'round de house jes like a 
mockin' bird. Ole Marster took her wid 
him on de long journeys to de cou't 
house, an' jurin' de intercession uv'de 
Legislature, when de town wuz lively 
as a camp meetin'. Tilly wuz allurs 
busy gittin' her clo's ready an' packed, 
an' she allurs went wid her to wait on 

"She wuz de foremos' in de fox 
hunts, an' dyah wan' nobody could set 
a horse like her; never movin' a inch 
frum de saddle when de horse leaped 
de ditches an' fences, an' she mostly 
brought home de bush hangin' frum 
de pomel uv her saddle. Ole Marster 
wuz close by her side, an' he kep' a 
steady watch on de young men dat 
crouded 'roun. I don' b'lieve he 
thought de king hisself wuz good 
'nough fur her. 

"Dis wuz 'fore de war; an' when all 
j we fuss hyrd dat de bugle done soun' 
an' de people wuz risin' up, we didn't 
b'lieve it; but bime by o!e Marster sade 
he wuz gwine git ready fur de wuss, 
an' Mars John corned home, an' da wuz 
all talkin' an' got 'cited, an' ole Miss 
and Miss 'Lizabeth wuz cryin' till da 
bof went away. Mars Richard wan' to 
go, too, an' beg an' beg; but he wa'n't 
nuthin' but a boy jes turnin' fifteen, 
tho' he wuz so big an' tall, an' old 
Marster s'waded him to stay at home 
an' take kere uv de res' uv de family. 

"When de day come fur um to start, 

an' da an' dyah horses, too., wuz dressed 
up in dyah new uniforms, ev'ry body 
went out on de piazza to see um off an' 
bid um good-bye. 

"Ole Miss an' Miss' Lizabeth couldn't 
stan' to see um go, an' da took de chil- 
lun an' went in an' shet de do' but 
Miss Virginia an' me an' Tilly watched 
um ridin' down de yard, de horses so 
proud uv dyah bridles and fringed sad- 
dles dat da wuz archin' dyah necks an' 
prancin' 'long wid dyah feet hardly 
techin' de groun'. 

"Miss Virginia stood dyah laughin' 
an' wavin' her hankcher' high as she 
could hole it over her hade, an' me an' 
Tilly wuz hine her wavin' our aprons 
till da went thro' de big gate an' wuz 
out uv sight. 

"De whole plantation know'd den 
dat war wuz gwine on, but we didn't 
heah nuthin', an' ev'ry thing went on 
jes' de same. At fuss ole Marster an' 
Mars John corned home once in a 
while; den da didn't come no mo'. We 
hyrd de big guns roarin' 'wayoff yonder 
somewhar', an' den da come nearer an' 
nearer, till it' peared like da wuz close 
by. We wuz so skeered dat didn't no- 
body go out de house 'ceptin' Mars 
Richard, an' he allurs took his gun an' 
'clare he gwine shoot de fuss one dat 
come on de plantation. De colored peo- 
ple at de quarters sade dat . de army 
wuz campin' right back uv de woods, 
an' dat da went over dyah to see what 
wuz goin' on, an' da kep' goin' an' 
goin', till Mars Richard sade dyah wan' 
many mo' lef, 'scusing dem at de 

"W T e wuz gittin' on as bes' we could 
after dis, when early one mornin' we 
wuz waked op by a great noise. De 
house wuz shakin' like thunder, an' de 
cheirs sot to rockin' an' we couldn't 
stop um. It wan' worth while to try to 
eat nuthin', kaze de china rattled on de 
table like it wuz gwine jump off. We 
all sot down speechless an' we couldn't 
talk, but shook like de cups. We could 
heah de bugle soundin' an' de people 
shoutin' an' callin' an' de horses 
screamin', and we sot still jes like we 
wuz dade. Mars Richard stood close 
to ole Miss an' kep' tellin' her not to 



mine it. Den sudden we hyrd a great 
shout, an' frum de winder we seed urn 
comin' like a swarm uv bees, gallopin' 
dyah horses, an' some runnin', an' when 
da reached de fence roun' de lawn da 
didn't min' it no mo' dan if da had foun' 
it as low as da laid it. It wuz de same 
wid de big front gate — wan' nuthin' 
lef but de two marble pos'es. When 
Mars Richard saw dis he picked up 
his gun an' run. Miss 'Lizabeth call 
to me an' Tilly, 'Go! go! an' save 
him ! Da won' shoot yo' kaze yo' is 

"I took hole uv Tilly an' went fas' 
as we could, but da wuz shootin' when 
we got out in de yard, bof Mars Rich- 
ard and de solgers, an' when de smoke 
cleared 'way Mars Richard wuz on de 
groun'. I runned to him an' kep' callin' 
'Mars Richard ! Mars Richard !' but he 
wouldn't speak; he lay still. One uv 
de solgers took hole uv me an' sade : 

"'What is yo' doin' out heah? Go 
in de house !" 

'"Is yo' done kill Mars Richard?' I 
ax him. 'Is he dade? What old Miss 
gwine do? Is yo' done kill my mar- 

" 'Yo' ain't got no marster!' he an- 
swer ; 'yo' is jes as free as I is !' 

"'I don't kear if I is free!' I say. 
'Dis is my ole Misses' chile, an' my 
marster.' I looked at Mars Richard wid 
de blood runnin' out his mouf an' felt 
jes like I gwine drap dade, too. I wuz 
mad, too; an' while me an Tilly wuz 
callin' dat solger names an' sassin' him, 
another one come up to us wid epa- 
taphs on his shoulders an' ac' like he 
wuz tearin' mad. When he call 'Who 
done dis?' de fuss solger looked 
skeared an' took off his cap an' call him 
captain, an' 'low dat de rebel shot fuss ; 
but de captain 'clare he wan' gwine 
take no 'cuse fur dis barberous ac' an' 
he gwine see jestice done. He 'peared 
dreadful sorry an' kneeled down by 
Mars Richard an' took hole uv his han's 
an' say he gwine carry him in de house 
an' do what he could ; but somebody 
call an' heah come Miss Virginia. 
When she git up to where we wuz, she 
sade to de captain: 

"'Don' yo' tech my brother! Yo' 

done kill him! Don' yo' come nigh 

"He tried his bes' to tell her how it 
were an' dat he wan' to help her, but 
she wouldn't listen to nuthin', an' put 
her arms 'roun' Mars Richard an' tole 
me an' Tilly to help, an' we took him 
in de house. I never know'd we could 
do it, he wuz so big, but sorrow made 
us strong. Nobody dat ain't never 
been in no war can't never feel what 
dat day wuz to my ole Miss, not 'cusin' 
de res' uv us. 

"De captain come to de door mo' dan 
once an' ax fur Miss Virginia, but she 
wouldn't see him. Den he writ to her. 
At fuss she wouldn't read it, but when 
she did she went out an' talked wid 
him. After dat she let him tend to 
every thing 'bout buryin' Mars Rich- 
ard in de family graveyard dat wuz 
'tached to de garden. 

"Before we wuz ready de sun had 
gone down in de red sky, an' de moon 
wuz sailin' 'long de clouds, when old 
Miss an' every body, white an' colored, 
come out de house an' kneeled down 
roun' de erave, while Miss Virginia 
read de Bible an' prayed. De captain 
wuz dyah, too, mournin' wid all we, an' 
de mockin' bird wuz singin' in a whis- 
per like he was sorry, too. 

"After dat de captain couldn't do 
'nough fur none uv de family. Dvah 
wuz so many solgers dat he couldn't 
subject um all de time, an' da soon 
'stroyed every thing on de plantation, 
but he kep' a watch on de house, an' 
didn't nuthin' 'sturb us. 

"Ole Miss wouldn't 'low fur him to 
come in de house, an' Miss Virginia 
had to 'municate wid him at de do'. 

"When de war wuz over an' peace 
an' silence wuz pronounced, ole Mar- 
ster and Mars John come home fur 
good. Mars John didn't have a scratch 
on him, but ole Marster had been shot 
in de lef bres' bone uv his back, an' 
though de doctor had extricated de 
ball, he allurs had to walk wid a cane. 
He didn't laugh like he used to. an' 
never sade nuthin'. We know'd what 
wuz on his min', and dat he wuz 
thinkin' 'bout de destruction uv de 
plantation an' Mars Richard's grave. 



"Some uv de colored people dat went 
'way corned back an' wanted to stay 
home, an' 'gin to tell ole Marster why 
da lef, but he sade: 'Stop right dyah! 
1 don' wan' to know nuthin' 'bout 
it; go to work an' I will give yo' jes- 

"Den every body went to work; 
Mars John, he help, too, an' ole Marster 
did what he could. Miss 'Lizabeth kep' 
school wid de chillun an' wuz de cheer- 
fules' one uv us all. 

"De reason why wuz, she told all 
we, dat Mr. Carter done fight through 
de whole war, an' had his cloze full uv 
bullet holes, an' been commoted, an' 
he hadn't los' nary leg nor nuthin' in 
de combat. So she had suthin' to re- 
concile her. But Miss Virginia 'pear 
like she couldn't settle herself to 
nuthin', an' when she talk low to her 
mother ole Miss seem like she gwine 
'stracted. I sade to Tilly dat I b'lieve 
Miss Virginia gwine in a decline. Tilly 
answer, ' 'Deed she ain',' but Miss Vir- 
ginia tole her dat she wuz 'gaged to be 
married to de captain, an' she mus'n't 
say nuthin' 'bout it, kaze she is 'fraid 
to let ole Marster know. 

When Tilly sade this my teeth 'gin 

to rattle, an' I tole her she done put me 

"n ^ a perfec' ague, but I know'd it 

oin' to kill ole Marster. But ole Mar- 

ter done notice himself dat* strange 

etters been cornin', an' he know'd, too, 

If ole Miss couldn't drink her coffee 

|$uthin' mus' be de matter, an' he ax 

What it were. Every body wuz so 

frightened dat da couldn't speak an' 

ole Marster axed ag'in, an' speak so 

sharp dat Miss Virginia stood right up 

In* tole him all. An' when she see dat 

pok come over his face, like he gwine 

jlrap dade, she run to him an' put her 

rms 'roun' his neck, an' cry an' beg 

im not to take it so hard, an' to for- 

ive her. 

"He groaned a long time, an' den he 
jade he done have to stan' a heep uv 
rouble, but dis wuz de wuss uv all. 
)en he put his han' on her hade an' 
issed her, and sade dat dis were a ter- 
rible shock, but da gwine furgit all 
>out it an' never mention it no mo'. 
»ut when she shake her hade an' don' 

speak, he pushed her frum him, an' he 
blame ole Miss an' rage an' carry on 
so dat me an' Tilly run an' hide. 

"Miss Virginia stood like a rock 
'g'inst de whole family. She done allurs 
had her own way, an' she wuz boun' to 
have it now. When ole Marster hyrd 
dat she done took Tilly wid her an' met 
de captain mo' dan once in some exclu- 
sive place, I cert'n'y wuz sorry fur him. 
He couldn't stan' it no longer, an' he 
locked Miss Virginia up in her room 
an' wouldn't let Tilly go nigh her, nor 
'low ole Miss to let me take her nuthin' 
to eat but what he put on de plate. An' 
he 'clare nobody shouldn't speek to her 
till she promise dat she wouldn't see da 
captain no mo'. 

"I know'd, an' ole Miss did, too, dat 
Tilly wuz sendin' up things to eat in a 
basket dat wuz tied to a string an' went 
up an' down frum her winder wid let- 
ters. But nobody didn't say nuthin', 
an' bime by things took a turn 

"It wuz gittin' nigh 'lection time, an' 
ole Marster had to go down in de 
county to vote. He allurs started early 
in de mornin' an' didn't git back till 
night — every body know'd dat; an' 
when da day come an' he done rode 
away, Miss Virginia called to her 
mother to come to de do', kaze she got 
suthin' to say to her. Den she told ole 
Miss dat she gwine off to git married 
dat very day. Dat de plans all done 
made an' she wuz 'spectin' de carnage 
to come fur her any minute. 

"Ole Miss was so frustrated dat it 
took some time fur her to collec' her- 
self, an' den she say she ain' gwine to 
have nuthin' to do wid it ; dat ole Mar- 
ster gwine put de whole blame on her. 
So she ordered de kerrige an' took de 
res' uv de fam'ly an' Sally Ann to spen' 
de day wid her cousin. Da had no mo' 
dan driv' out uv sight when Miss Vir- 
ginia sade : 'I see dus' 'way up de road 
an' I think da is comin'. Tell Peter an' 
Jackson to bring de long ladder an' put 
it up to de winder, so I ken come 
down.' When da com erunnin' wid it, 
Peter sade: 

" 'Oh ! Miss Virginia, what ole Mar- 
ster gwine say if all we put it up 



1 'Don't tech it den/ she answer ; 'lay 
it down right dyah. I ain't gwine to 
bring trouble on nobody else.' 

"By dis time de kerrige done dash up 
to de gate wid de horses all in a foam, 
an' a tall, slim young man dat I know'd 
wuz de captain jumped out an' run un- 
der de winder an' ax, 'Is yo' ready?' 
an' she say, 'Yes, I is ; put up de ladder 
an' I will come down.' 

"He called de coachman an' da put 
de ladder up, an' he went up hisself an' 
helped her down jes' as tender as if she 
had been a baby. While he wuz put- 
tin' her in de kerrige an' gittin' in his- 
self, de coachman rushed de trunk 
down de ladder, an' 'fo' yo' could take 
yo' bref da wuz gone, tearin' down de 
road, wid Tilly an' her ban' box settin' 
up in front wid de coachman. 

"We wuz 'fraid to throw rice or ole 
shoes after urn, but when Miss Vir- 
ginia looked frum de winder an' waved 
her han'k'chief we took off our ap'ons 
an' hats an' waved um an' called, 
'Good-bye, Miss Virginia ! De Lord 
bless yo', honey ! Good-bye!' 

"Dyah wan' no need uv um rushin' 
so, kaze dyah wan' nobody to chase 
after um, an' da mus' hev got half-way 
to Washin'ton 'fo' ole Marster done 
cas' his fuss vote or take his fuss dram ; 
an' it were 'way off yonder todes night 
'fo' he come home. 

"Ole Miss done make sure dat she 
wan' gwine git dyah fuss, an' it were a 
blessin' dat she let de storm bus' 'fo' 
she did, fur ole Marster wuz mos' 
'stracted out uv his senses. 

"As de days went by he quieted 
down an' gived up, jes' like people 
'bleged to do when da done bury dyah 
dade. He jes' sot still an' read de paper 
an' his hade turned white. It was jest 
de same wid de res' uv us, but we 
didn't make no complaint. It wan't 
dat we minded so much she had runned 
off an' 'loped to git married, kaze dat 
wuz nachral 'nough wid all we clown 
ole home; de young people wuz con- 
stant vanquishin' away when dyah 
wan't no 'jection raised 'ceptin' dat de 
young man wuz a little wile or suthin' ; 
an' den come a letter sayin' da done 
got married. Da wuz allurs soon back 

treated wid love an' 

home ag'in an 

"But dis uv Miss Virginia 
wuz 'tireiy indifferent. It wan't only 
dat de man wuz a total stranger, but he 
had been a solger fightin' on de yuther 
side, an' it wan't nach'al fur none uv 
our family to countenance him, nor see 
no good in him, even if he had been 
lined wid gold ; but, 'stead uv dat, we 
hyrd dat he didn't have nuthin' but a 
half-pay office under de guv'ment, an' 
it wan' no mo' dan a year 'fo' some- 
body bring de word dat he done los' 
even dat, kaze he was sick. 

"Den de news come dat he had con- 
sumption an' wuz gittin' wusser an' 
wusser, an' dat da wuz as po' as a 
church mouse. Ole Miss 'clare she 
ain' goin' stan' it no longer, wid Miss 
Virginia starvin' an' she 'bleged to 
speak to ole Marster. But when ole 
Marster foun' out what she wuz leadin' 
up to, he wave his han' an' turn away. 

"Bime by a ominous letter bedout no 
name to it come to ole Miss, sayin' de 
captain wuz dade an' Miss Virginia 
wuz mos' dade, too. 

"Ole Miss took dat letter an' put it \j 
in ole Marster's han', an' when he done 
read it he put it on de table an' laid his 
white hade down on it, an' yo' could 
see him shake all over. Den he sade to I 
ole Miss, 'I gwine dyah an' bring her- 
home,' an' he started off dat very day; 
an' when da come back he had to take 
her out de kerrige in his arms an' lay 
her on her own bade. She wuz so re- 
duced to nuthin' dat we didn't know 
her fur Miss Virginia. She smiled 
when she looked 'roun' de room an' 
seed us all dyah, an' sade she wuz so 
happy in her married life till sorrowjr -. 
come ; an' now dat she done seed us all 
once mo', she was wuz ready to die, 
too. Dat made us turn our hades an' 
go out de room- — all but ole Marster, 
an' I hyrd him say : 

" 'Don' yo' talk dat way, kaze in a 
little while we is gwine have yo' out in 
de sunshine.' Sure 'nough, it wan' long) I 
'fo' she wuz settin' out do's under dejj 
big trees in de easy Morrison cheir, an] 
ole Marster wuz 'side her radin' suthin 
dat would mak her laugh an' singin' dc 



ole huntin' songs ; likewise he would 
take his fiddle out dyah, an' he could 
make it ring, too, playin' 'Dandy Jim' 
an' 'Ole Dan Tucker' wid sich a hasty 
turn in de corner uv de chime dat yo' 
would almos' think it were my Uncle 
Moses, who wuz a nachral-born fiddler, 
an 'no mistake. 

"Ole Miss would sometimes take her 
knittin' out dyah, too ; but she w r uz so 
broken down dat she couldn't stan' 
nUthin'. All we know'd well 'nough dat 
Miss Virginia done made up her min' 
she wan' gwine to stay heah. Every 
day she got weaker an' weaker ; she 
didn't 'pear to care no mo' fur de rose 
dat Miss 'Lizabeth fotched her, an' de 
chillun had to play quiet. 

"But old Marster kep' on readin' an' 
singin' an' playin' when he wuz wid 
her, 'ceptin' he did it eas}^ now ; but 
when he lef her an' come in de house 
he pulled down de blinds an' laid down 
on his face on de sofa. 

"One mornin' (it was de las' day, an' 
she done tole us so), when she lay back 
in de big cheir wid de sun makin' long 
shaders, an' de birds singin', she called 
fur us all an' sade she wuz mos' home ; 
dat she been mighty happy in dis worl', 
but she gwine be happier in de yuther 
one. Dat she wan' 'fraid to cross de 
river kaze Jesus wuz wid her, an' she 
gwine wait fur all we on de yuther 
shore. Den she couldn't say no mo', 
an' she shet her eyes herself an' wuz 

Mammy paused here to heave a deep 
ign ; then went on : 

"Yes ! my ole Marster had a heap uv 
rouble, but he wan' de onliest one 
vhose cup done brim over, 'specially 
rouble 'bout chillun ; I done had some 
sperience myself, like my mother befo' 

"She had thirteen chillun an' mostly 
very one uv um wuz infants at de 
ame time; an' when de las' one come 
e Miss sade she done search an' 
earch an' couldn't find no mo' names, 
n' she sade dat my mother done have 
10' dan her share already, an' dat dis 
ne mus' be called Lastly. 
"Every body know'd dat thirteen 
uz a unlucky number, an' da didn't 

'low fur Lastly to live de fuss year out ; 
but she kep' on an' grow'd up in spite 
uv all de 'zasters she wuz subjec' to, 
but which never overtook her. We wuz 
allurs 'spectin' dat Lastly would fall 
out de cherry tree an' brake her neck, 
or git drowned in de branch, or dat de 
rattlesnake would bite her, or suthin' 
else would bring her to a timely en' ; 
an' when I corned up heah wid Miss 
Car'line I kep' sayin' to myself: 

" 'Lastly done already live to a good 
middlin' age an' she has allurs been 
right smart an' well, but sometime 
dyah is sure to come a change, an' I 
ain't gwine be surprised if I outlives 
her, to heah some day dat she has been 
took wid some kine uv 'zease an' is 

"Sure 'nough, I hadn't been up hyah 
mo' dan ten years 'fo' de Lord in his 
mercy thought bes' to cut her off in her 
prime, an' my sister Rosetta sont a let- 
ter to say dat Lastly done lef a orphan- 
less little girl, jes' lackin' eight years 
an' one month, an' she sade dat al- 
though she had ten chillun in her own 
light she wuz willin' to add one mo' to 
de lis', 'vidin' de res' uv de 'lations 
would sen' in a perscription fur to sup- 
port her. I cultivated dat question 
over an' over in my mine as to what 
wuz bes' to do fur Dinah Matildy. 

"Yo' see, dis chile wuz named after 
both me an' Tilly, so in case we wuz to 
die she would be "a livin' monument. 
When my mine got settled I sont word 
to Sister Rosetta dat I didn't feel testi- 
fied in prescribin' fur Dinah Matildy, 
fur de reason dat ever since death de- 
livered me from my first husband I 
had 'cided never to enter into no mo' 
partnerships, an' I wan' willin' to do 
nuthin' under de accusin' circumstances 
but to take de whole uv de chile. 

"My sister Rosetta an' Miss 'Liz'beth 
both sont word dat Dinah Matildah 
was bes' off where she were, Miss Car'- 
line jined in wid um, an' 'low we had 
'nuf chillun in de house now an' 
couldn't have no mo'. I sade I wuz 
goin' to git some good 'oman to take 
keer uv her fur me, an' sen' her to day 
school an' Sunday school, an' -raise her 
up to be a fust class 'oman. I 'quired 



'roun', an' Mrs. Benson, who lived 
down in de village, sade she wuz jes' 
what she wanted to wait on de table an' 
de do' bell, an' dat she would sen' her 
to school, too. 

"Miss Car'line didn't raise no second 
'jection, so I sont de ticket an' for- 
warded word fur urn to sen' her by ex- 
press, wid an attachment on her uv a 
card, fastened wid her name an* des- 
titution. When I hyrd she wuz on de 
way, an' she didn't come at de 'p'inted 
time, I went right into Boston an' 
asked de chief in de depot why de chile 
had not been delivered. He sade dat 
an accidental had tracked de car on de 
side, but da wuz all right now an' had 
started ag'in, an' wuz liable to come 
any minute. While he wuz tellin' me 
dis de train come bus'in in de station. 
When we foun' dat chile she wuz layin' 
down on de seat, too sick to hole her 
hade up. All 'roun' her wuz piled up 
bags an' bags uv cakes an' doughnuts 
an' 'nannas an' candy, an' I don' know 
what all. 

"Dyah wuz a kine 'oman wid her, 
who tole me dat ev'ry body in de car 
noticed dat she wuz plackarded, an' da 
'peared like da wuz 'fraid she would 
git lonesome an' hungry an' kep' 
s'plyin' her wid things, an' she had 
been eatin' ever since de fuss day she 
started, an' nobody didn't let her res' 
day or night. She sade, too, dat I ou^ht 
to be thankful dat dyah wuz any life 
lei' in her, an' I better take her home 
soon as I could, 'fo' she die on my 

"I tole de lady dat she highly recom- 
mended herself to me, an' I wuz gwine 
to pray fur her dat she might hev one 
mo' star added to her crown. Dis 
prayer wuz likewise extended to de po- 
liceman who helped me to git her home 
'fo' she died, an' I wuz mo' dan a week, 
'sisted by de whole. family, added to de 
doctor, gittin' dat chile's stomach 
qualified and settled in de right place. 
When she got well I sade to her: 

' 'De Lord is done raised *yo' frum 
a bed uv woe an' set yo' on yo' feet 
ag'in ; he done 'liver yo' frum de lion's 
mouf an' de fiery furnace to give him 
thanks. Kneel down dyah an' lem me 

heah yo' pray!' She couldn't say a 
word. I call Miss Car'line an' tole her 
how I had weighed de chile in de bal- 
ance an' foun' her wantin' Miss Car'- 
line 'scused her an' sade de chile wuz 
skeered. I didn't wan' to 'cept dat 
'pology, kaze every las' one uv our 
chillun can speak sunthin' at de fuss 
call. When I took de twinzes to class 
meetin' at my church an' ax de preacher 
fur de privilege uv lettin' um give in 
dyah testimony, he tole me he wuz 
struck speachless wid 'mazement when 
Sweety an' Honey stood up an' sade, 'I 
had a little poney!' No wonder he 
wuz ! kaze our chillun ain't no dum- 
mies, an' we don' let um keep dyah 
light conceiled under a bushel, but is 
allurs pinetin' fur um to go up higher, 
an' dat's what I wanted to 'press on de 
mine uv Dinah Matildy. 

"After I done learn her to pray, I 
made her set down every day an' tole 
her jes' like I tells our chillun: 'Yo is 
goin' to school an' learn frum de books, 
but yo' ain't gwine to fine it easy. De 
Lord planted de tree uv knowledge 
hisself and' put de fruit 'way up on de 
top, so yo' got to climb to git it. Yo' 
wants de bes', too, dat is hard to pull 
off, an' not dat what falls on de groun' 
an' any body ken pick up.' But Dinah 
Matildy kep' cryin' and 'clarin' dat she 
didn't wan' to clime no trees but dem 
in de orchard down ole home. 

"After she went to Mrs. Benson's 
she cheered up some, an' 'peared to 
take right smart intrus' in de school; 
but bime by, when I 'gin to question 
her 'bout de condition uv her soul, I 
foun' out dat Mrs. Benson wuz learnin' 
her prayers out de book, an' I couldn't 
stan' dat an' went right over dyah an' 
brought her home. Mrs. Benson tried) 
to argufy wid me an' ax, 'Does yo' sayl 
de prayer, "Our Father"'? I answer,; 
'Curtny I dose.' Den she say, 'De Lord 
made dat prayer fur yo' and yo' gits it 
out a book; de prayer yo' preacher 
makes fur yo' ain't no mo' yourn dan 
dese!' But I tole her dat . I didn't, 
b'lieve in no prayer dat didn't come 
frum de spontaneous soul. 

"But it didn't 'pear like trouble wid 
dat chile wuz ever gwine cease, fur it 



wan' six months after I got her settled 
in another good home when I went to 
see how she w r as gittin' 'long an' foun' 
out dat she wan' gwine to neither 
church nor school — jes' stayin' home 
rockin' de cradle an' takin' keer uv de 
yuther chillun an' runnin' erran's, till 
she wuz so thin dat she wuz de same 
as a whippo'will. De lady sade dat 
Dinah Matildy didn't wan' to go to 
school kaze de chillun laughed at her 
bein' so big in de infantry class, an' da 
wouldn't call her Dinah Matildy, but 
gived her de nickle name uv Dinny, 
fur short, an' so she thought it bes' to 
hev her read to her nights. Wuss dan 
dat, Dinah Matildy wan' gwine to no 
church bekaze de 'oman wuz a special- 
ist in 'ligeon, an' didn't have to 'pend 
on nuthin' to help her gain de victory ; 
she jes' had to set down an' 'clare she 
gwine do suthin' an' she did it bedout 
movin' ; an' she tole Dinah Matildy dat 
she would do mos' uv de prayin' fur 
her herself, an' all dat Dinah Matildy 
had to do wuz to think it out at de 
'p'inted time ; an' she sade it didn't 
make no difference where she were, 
dyah mines would jine an' testify to- 
gether jes' de same as if da wuz side 
an' side, an' dat da could battle 'g'inst 
sickness an' health an' keep on livin' 
an' 'joyin' daselves, an' nuthin' wan' 
gwine 'sturb um no mo'. 

"When dat lady tried to 'splain all 
dis to me, an' sade she wuz a preacher 
uv de word an' had been glorified, I 
wuz so 'mazed dat I wuz struck dumb 
wid silence, an' kep' saying to myself, 
'When yo' speaks, don' be hasty; let 
yo' answer be yea ! yea ! nay ! nay !' 
When I had cultivated my mine to a 
easy state I sade to her : 

u 'I is dis chile's mother an' likewise 
her father, an' stands 'sponsible fur 
her, so dat I feels obligated to 'nounce 
dat she is certny on de broad road to 
distruction. I don' trus' nobody to 
come twix' me an' my maker, kaze we 
can allers settle it bes' twix' ourselves, 
an' don' want no interference frum out- 
siders dat keep patchin' up one thing 
an' another, callin' it 'ligeon an' makin' 
it so easy fur yo' to git to heaven dat 
yo' ain't even got to knock at de do', 

fur de reason dat de angel dat usually 
stands dyah keepin' guard wid de 
flamin' sword an' axes fur yo' testi- 
mony has done 'sert his pos', an' all yo' 
got to do now is to walk in an' take yo' 
seat bedout even a weddin' garment on.' 

"I tole her dat I felt convicted dat I 
hadn't foun' out befo' dat she wuz 
standin' on sich uncertain groun'; dat 
Dinah Matildy done already jepordize 
her soul, an' I wuz jestified in takin' 
her home' mediate, fo' de seed she done 
sow had time to bear fruit to de chile's 
everlastin' condemnation: 

"Heah I wuz ag'in wid de chile on 
my han's, an' I wuz so 'sturbed in my 
mine dat I couldn't sleep night nor 
day; an' I 'gin to think dat I certny 
gwine loose my seat in heaven if 
suthin' wan' done soon, an' de onliest 
thing I could 'side on wuz to lay it all 
'fo' de Lord in prayer, an' tell him dat 
although I done bring de case uv dis 
chile befo' him so many times, I know'd 
he would 'scuse me fur comin' ag'in 
kaze de Bible done tole us dat his pa- 
tience wan' never 'zausted, an' I begged 
him to settle de vexatious subjec'. 

"Sure 'nough, dat very night, while I 
lay dyah thinkin' 'bout it, de answer 
come right befo' me, an' it sade, 'Don' 
yo' hoi' on to dat chile no longer; give 
her up an' sen' her where she belongs ; 
leastwise yo' gwine to lose all de 'ligeon 

"Next day I tole Miss Car'line 'bout 
it, an' she 'greed wid me dat I done 
been a faithful steward and done de 
bes' I could, an' de onliest thing now 
wuz to sen' Dinah Matildy back down 
ole home. Didn't nobody veject, an' 
Dinah Matildy wuz glad 'nough to go ; 
an' when I got her ready I had a plack- 
ard writ an' tacked on to her, sayin' : 

" 'Dis ain't no po' chile ; she is got 
fren's bof north an' south, an' is goin' 
down ole home. She is s'plied wid 
every convenience an' plenty to eat, so 
please don' nobody add nuthin' to her ; 
kaze if you do, it gwine bring her to 
pain an' sorrow an' likewise her fren's, 
as de pas' done testify; so please 'scuse 

"It wan' long 'fo' I had a chance to 
thank de Lord fur what I had done. De 



news come frum down ole home rial a 
great revival wuz in opperation, an' 
Dinah Matildy was de fuss one dat 
sought de mourners' bench ; an' al- 
though it kep' all de preachers an' dea- 
cons busy two whole days an' nights 
prayin' fur her, she got through at las', 
and wuz now changed frum herself to a 
totally indifferent person. So I thanked 
de Lord ag'in an' washed her off my 
!• an's. Dis is why I sade dyah wan' no 
trouble like chile trouble, whether it 
come to yo' wid de dade or de livin'. 
People talk 'bout dis trouble an' dat 
trouble, an' mostly en's by 'clairin' dat 
marryin' is de wus uv all ; but 'speri- 
ence done show me dat dyah ain't 
nuthin' like chile trouble ; husban' 
trouble dint' no tech to it. Yo' chile is 
yo' own, an' if dat chile go astray, yo' 
claims him jes' de same as yourn; but 
da tells me dat yo' husband ain't no real 
'lation to yo' nohow, an' dat mus' be de 
reason why yo' don' mine sometimes 
gittin' shed uv him 'tirely. When my 
fuss husban' died I done my juty by 
him an' kep' on deep mournin' fur over 
a year, which wuz mo' dan he deserved, 
kaze he wan' allurs what he wuz 'lotted 
out to be ; but yo' know it is mostly 
allurs dat way — if da ain't one thing, da 

is another, an' dat is what makes de 
trouble. How many times is I been 
married? Laws, chile, I ain't never 
been married but oncet ! I ain't but one 
widder ! An' ever since I wuz cast 
asunder I has never thought it bes' to 
obligate myself ag'in. 'Tain't dat I 
ain't had plenty uv chances to change 
my fuss lawful name ; no, indeed ! It 
were jes' las' winter dat Brother Hains 
uv de fuss Baptis' keep comin' out heah 
from Boston, tellin' me 'bout his great 
possessions an' hintin' like he wan' me 
to share um, when he sont me a letter 
jes' 'bout Valentine's Day wid suthin' 
like dis : 

" 'Deares' 'Sociate : When yo' re- 
ceives dis epistle I hope yo' eyes will 
forever flow, not wid sorrow, but wid 
joy.' Honey ; clared dat he gwine git 
me a valentine to sen' him an' ax me 
fur de money ; I tole Honey dat he wan' 
worth but five cents, but he 'sisted on 
ten. When he come home from school 
dat night, Honey sade he bought candy 
wid de money, kaze he 'cided dat 
Brother Hains wan' worth nary cent. I 
told him I know'd dat, 'specially since 
I done learn dat he had overgrown 
daughters an' a stepmother-in-law livin' 
wid him. 


Noon by the shortened shadows at my feet, 
Noon by the tolling bells in yonder tower, — 
And yet I know full well it is the midnight hour ! 

'Tis midnight and from musky climes remote 
The slow-winged zephyrs steal an opiate breath 
And all the halls of life are hung with sable death. 

I had not thought our mortal parts contained 
So still a place, a chamber so remote, 

That one should pace the street and hear its strident note 
Less than the drippings of Adullah's cave, 
Or as the highest branches of the tree, 
Or as a muffled oar afar upon the sea: — 

A folded page, a tiny crest of gold, 
A word or two — alas what little things 
Can still the heart, close-pressed amid the strings ! 

The Tragic in the Life of Aaron Burr 


THERE is no character in Ameri- 
can political history more mys- 
terious, more tragic, and, for 
those very reasons, more fascinating 
than that of Aaron Burr. 

Had Burr died at the close of the 
American Revolution, there would have 
been no element of mystery in his ca- 
reer to baffle inquiring minds. As a 
soldier he would have taken his place 
in history as one of the bravest of 
American patriots. His wonderful 
power to command, so ably exhibited 
in the long march on Quebec ; his in- 
difference to fatigue and hunger; his 
fortitude in sharing the privations of 
his soldiers ; his courage in battle, as 
when under the heights of Quebec he 
seized the fallen body of General Mont- 
gomery and bore that dying patriot on 
his shoulder down the snow-covered 
slopes, amidst a hail of British grape- 
shot, entitles him to rank as a hero of 
the type of Anthony Wayne and Ethan 
Allen. Aaron Burr came out of the 
Revolutionary War, said sturdy John 
Adams, "with the character of a knight, 
without fear and an able officer." 

The mysterious part of Burr's life — 
the part that is replete with vicissi- 
tudes, misfortune, tragedy and ill-con- 
trived schemes that border close to 
treason — began after his election to the 

In 1801 Burr was Vice-President of 
the United States, having been elected 
to that office after a spirited contest 
with Jefferson for the presidency. To 
all appearances, his position was one to 
be envied. 

There was but one note of discord in 
Burr's otherwise harmonious existence, 
and that was the continued hostility of 
Alexander Hamilton. Ever since they 
had served together as aides on General 

Washington's staff, Burr and Hamilton 
had shown an ever-increasing jealousy 
and bitterness toward each other. Dur- 
ing the years that Burr was Vice-Presi- 
dent this enmity reached its height. 
Party strife was bitter in those days. 
Political quarrels were carried into pri- 
vate life. It was the era of ill-feeling, 
and in the bosoms of no two men was 
this spirit nourished and kept alive 
with such intensity as in Burr and 
Hamilton. Burr, in his quiet, secretive 
way, did all he could to undermine the 
political ambitions of Hamilton, and 
Hamilton, by open, vehement speech 
and voluminous correspondence, full of 
strong epithets, sought at every- op- 
portunity to prejudice the public mind 
against Burr. 

At last, Burr, stung to the quick, set 
about to do the deed that was to be the 
cause of all his subsequent misfortunes. 
In a letter so worded that Hamilton 
could not escape, save by abject apol- 
ogy, he challenged him to a duel. 
Though opposed to duelling (for a fa- 
vorite son of his had been killed in a 
duel fought a short time before), Ham- 
ilton was too lofty-minded to apologize 
and too courageous to refuse the chal- 
lenge. He therefore -reluctantly ac- 
cepted it. The tragedy that followed 
is too familiar to dwell upon. July 11, 
1804, at sunrise, in the woods of Wee- 
hawken, near the banks of the Hudson, 
they met. At the command of Pendle- 
ton, one of the seconds, Burr raised his 
pistol, took deliberate aim and fired. 
Hamilton instantly sprang convulsively 
upward, reeled a little, discharged his 
pistol involuntarily into the airand then 
fell forward, mortally wounded. I A few 
days later he was dead, and the nation 
had lost a brilliant and popular states- 
man and Burr had wrought his own ruin. 




The sudden and tragic death of Ham- 
ilton produced a universal feeling of 
sympathy and sorrow, and brought 
down upon Burr's head a storm of con- 
demnation. When the correspondence 
that passed between Burr and Hamil- 
ton prior to the duel was published, 
the public, for the most part, felt that 
Hamilton had been trapped to his 
death. The friends of Burr and the 
enemies of Hamilton alike deprecated 
the act. 

To escape the storm of disapproval 
about him, Burr fled stealthily by sea to 
Georgia. Here, where the custom of 
duelling was still highly regarded, and 
where Hamilton was not so well 
known, the Vice-President was soon 
transformed from a fugitive from jus- 
tice into an exiled hero. After a month's 
stay, during which time he was mostly 
occupied in attending fetes and recep- 
tions, he returned to Washington to 
take his place at the head of the Sen- 
ate, welcome his successor, De Witt 
Clinton, and say farewell to his fellow- 
senators. This was his last appear- 
ance upon the political stage, and a pa- 
thetic one it must have been to a man 
of Burr's talents and sensibility. It is 
said that his farewell address, for grace, 
depth of thought and affecting leave- 
taking, is one of the most impressive 
ever delivered in the Senate. 

At this time New York, Pennsyl- 
vania, Virginia and the New England 
States were, politically, the nation; and 
as Burr had now lost his popularity in 
these states, he turned his eyes toward 
the West. Two years before, the gov- 
ernment had purchased Louisiana from 
France. This opened up the mouth of 
the Mississippi to the settlers in the 
Southwest, who for years had been 
forced to pay heavy tribute to Spain, 
who held the mouth of the river. The 
tardiness of the government in bring- 
ing Spain to terms created much dis- 
satisfaction amongst the people of the 
Southwest. There was, besides, much 
dissatisfaction amongst the people of 
Mexico, who chafed beneath the Span- 
ish yoke. To this section of the coun- 
try Burr now eagerly directed his 

On his voyage down the Ohio River 
he stopped at an island about three 
hundred miles above Cincinnati, the 
home of the now historic Harman Blen- 
nerhassett, an eccentric, wealthy Irish- 
man, who had spent many years and a 
fortune in carving for himself out of 
the wilds of nature a home of remark- 
able beauty. Charmed by the magnifi- 
cence of the island, Burr determined to 
make himself acquainted with its 
owner. He found Blennerhassett sur- 
rounded by books, paintings, statuary, 
instruments of science and all the evi- 
dences of intellect and refinement. 
Captivated by all this, he welcomed 
the invitation of his host to remain i 
over night, and his host, captivated in 
turn by the fame, intelligence and vi- 
vacity of his guest, formed for him a ' 
friendship which in an incredibly short 
time was to result in the loss of honor, 
fortune and friends. To Burr this 
chance visit meant much ; but to Blen- 
nerhassett it meant everything. 

Continuing his venturesome voyage, 
Burr floated down the Mississippi until 
he came to New Orleans, where a great 
reception awaited him, and where for j 
nearly three weeks he was treated like 
a conqueror. No doubt his popularity f 
in this section of the country had its 
effect in determining his future ac- 
dons. His mind teemed with schemes j 
for the independence of Mexico, and he! 
looked about for assistance. Stationed! 
on the borders of the Spanish prov- 
inces, and intrusted with the defence 
of the southern frontier, was General 
James Wilkinson, then general-in-chief 
of the armies of the United States, with! 
whom Burr had fought in the Revo-| 
lutionary War. To him Burr confided 1 
his project, and, from all that can bej 
learned, Wilkinson seems to havei 
eagerly become a party to it. 

In the winter of 1805-1806 Burr was! 
back in Washington, his mind now. set 
on the conquest of Mexico. In a fewj 
months he gathered about him hun-: 
dreds of people who were willing to 
risk their lives and their fortunes inj 
such an expedition. Not only did he 
recruit a small army from the hardy 
inhabitants of Kentucky, Tennessee 



Aaron Burr 

and neighboring states, but he also ob- 
tained the aid and support of such men 
of wealth and influence as Marinus 
Willett, afterward mayor of New York; 
General Dayton, General Adair, Gen- 
eral Dupiester, and even General An- 
drew Jackson. To Harman Blenner- 
hassett, Burr presented the glory of 
conquest so vividly that that gentle- 
man gave up everything to join the in- 
jvading forces. Of all the people 

throughout the country whom Burr 
succeeded in aiding him, few knew his 
real plans. They knew that Spain had 
ruled tyrannically over Mexico, and that 
Burr, in some way or other, was to as- 
sist the Mexicans to obtain their inde- 
pendence. Only to a very few did Burr 
make known the fact that he contem- 
plated something far more ambitious. 
In letters which he wrote in cipher to 
General Wilkinson and to Blennerhas- 



sett he revealed his real design. It was 
to conquer Mexico from the Spaniards, 
place himself at the head of the new 
government as emperor, and then leave 
it to the states of the. West to decide 
whether they would go into the Union 
or become a part of his new govern- 

The government, however, began to 
scent danger, and a United States dis- 
trict attorney, located at Frankfort, 
Ky., seized the opportunity to gain 
fame for himself by demanding that 
Burr appear before the court in that 
district and answer to the charge of 
being engaged in an enterprise con- 
trary to the laws of the United States. 
To his surprise, Burr answered the 
summons fearlessly, came to Frankfort 
with his counsel, Henry Clay, and left 
the court completely victorious, to re- 
turn again to the Southwest and con- 
tinue operations. 

His victory, however, was short- 
lived. General Wilkinson, becoming 
alarmed at the possible consequences 
likely to follow an attempt to revolu- 
tionize Mexico, suddenly changed front 
and dispatched a messenger to Presi- 
dent Jefferson, revealing everything. 
The President, fearing a revolt of the 
W r estern states, at once issued a procla- 
mation and suspended the writ of ha- 
beas corpus. Instantly the entire coun- 
try was aroused to a high pitch of ex- 
citement at Burr's disloyalty to the 
Union. A reward of two thousand dol- 
lars was offered for his arrest. He was 
soon captured, and after a tedious and 
perilous march through the swamps 
and wildernesses of the Southern states, 
brought to Richmond, Va., and placed 
in jail. 

Most men would have been disheart- 
ened by this sudden change of affairs 
for the worse. Burr, on the contrary, 
maintained the same easy, genial and 
convincing manner that made people 
admire him in spite of themselves. 

"I hope sir," said his jailer, "that it 
would not be disagreeable to you if I 
should lock the door after dark." 

"By no means," calmly replied Burr; 
"I should prefer it, to keep out in- 

His only apprehension at this time 
seems to have been that the. news of his 
arrest and imprisonment would unduly 
excite his daughter Theodosia, the one 
great object of his affections. 

On May 22, 1807, Burr was placed on 
trial for treason before Chief Justice 
Marshall. Then began one of the most 
remarkable trials in the history of this 
Country. Never before had a greater 
array of legal talent or a more distin- 
guished throng of spectators appeared 
in an American court-room. William 
Wirt was there, John Randolph. Ed- 
mund Randolph, Luther Martin, An- 
drew Jackson, Washington Irving, 
Winfield Scott, and a host of Burr's 
friends from New York. The trial 
lasted all summer and ended in an ac- 
quittal, as there was no conclusive evi- 
dence that Burr intended to sever the 
Western states from the Union. 

Though acquitted of the charge of 
treason, Burr was now ruined both in 
fortune and in name. His home on 
Richmond Hill, that historic mansion 
overlooking the Hudson River, with 
its wealth of books and art, had been 
sold to satisfy his creditors ; his per- 
son was still subject to imprisonment 
for debt, and he was also liable to ar- 
rest on a government indictment for a 
misdemeanor. For several months 
after his acquittal he remained con- 
cealed in New York to prevent further 
prosecution. While his expedition for 
Mexican independence had thus far 
proven a disastrous failure, he by no 
means abandoned the project, but re- 
solved to visit Europe and seek foreign 
aid. Bidding an affectionate farewell 
to Theodosia, and intrusting to her his 
private papers and the collection of 
such debts as were owing him, which 
were in a measure to provide for his 
maintenance while abroad, he secretly 
left New York and made his way to 
Nova Scotia, where he boarded a Brit- 
ish mail packet, and under the name of 
G. H. Edwards sailed for England 

On arriving in England he was 
greeted with news that for the time 
completely shattered his hopes of se- 
curing the aid of either England or 
France, the two nations from whom he 



most expected it. Two clays before his 
arrival Joseph Bonaparte had marched 
into Madrid and been proclaimed King 
of Spain; and England, so hostile to 
Napoleon, at once took the part of the 
dethroned king. There was, therefore, 
slight chance that England would in 
any way assist Burr in a scheme detri- 
mental to the Spaniards, nor could he 
hope that Napoleon would listen to any 
overtures toward the independence of 
a country that was part of a nation he 
had conquered. The indefatigable 
Burr, nevertheless, sought out George 
Canning, Lord Castlereagh and other 
British officials, before whom he laid 
his plans, but received in return not the 
slightest encouragement. 

While the government frowned upon 
him, British society, on the other hand, 
received him with open arms. He was 
the lion of the drawing room, the ban- 
quet table and the platform. His 
bravery as a soldier, his former posi- 
tion as Vice-President, his duel with 
Hamilton, his Mexican expedition and 
his sensational trial, together with his 
magnetic personality and wonderful 
conversational powers, made him an 
object of interest and respect wherever 
he went. He was welcomed as a guest 
by William Goodwin and Mary Wool- 
stoncraft; by Jeremy Bentham, the 
philosopher; Feseli, the painter, and by 
such literary lights as Henry Macken- 
zie, Charles Lamb and Sir Walter 
Scott. William Cobbett was so im- 
pressed with Burr's talents that he dis- 
cussed seriously how the ex- Vice-Pres- 
ident of the United States might be 
made a member of the British Parlia- 

In the midst of a season of gayety 
in Edinburgh, Burr was informed by 
friends that he must return at once to 
London, as the government evinced 
great distrust of him and was about to 
take some active measures. Suspecting 
that he was under surveillance, and 
having a presentiment of impending 
danger, he immediately on his return 
to London packed up his papers, and 
under the name of "Mr. Kirby," took 
quarters in a cheap lodging-house. 

About a week after his change of 

residence four officers of the govern- 
ment entered his room and infoimed 
him that he was under arrest by virtue 
of a warrant issued by the English 
premier, Lord Liverpool — in other 
words, he was a prisoner of state. His 
trunks, containing all his papers, were 
taken from him and he was detained as 
a prisoner for three days. Then came a 
polite note from Lord Liverpool, apol- 
ogizing for the occurrence and in the 
most diplomatic manner possible con- 
veying to Burr the fact that his pres- 
ence in Great Britain was embarrass- 
ing to the government, and that he was 
expected to leave its jurisdiction. 

From England, Burr went to Swe- 
den, where he remained five months. 
Fearing the rigors of a Swedish winter, 
he left that country and traveled leis- 
urely toward France, enjoying every- 
where the same social triumphs that 
he had enjoyed in England and Scot- 
land. In Germany he was warmly re- 
ceived by Niebtihr, the historian, and 
by Goethe, the latter entertaining him 
for several evenings at his home in 
Weimar. Learning that Napoleon was 
considering the independence of Mex- 
ico and the other Spanish colonies, 
Burr hurried to France and sought out 
the Emperor's ministers in an effort to 
have an interview with the man who 
was then the greatest power in the 
world. He wrote lengthy letters ; he 
waited in the ante-chamber of numer- 
ous ministers, in the hope of securing 
some encouragement. He sent a mes- 
senger to Prince Talleyrand, who, of 
all ministers, stood closest to the Em- 
peror ; but that shrewd diplomat, whom 
Burr had once toasted and feted at 
Richmond Hill, sent back this reply: 
"Say to Colonel Burr that I wili re- 
ceive him to-morrow ; but tell him also 
that General Hamilton's likeness al- 
ways hangs over my mantel." It is 
needless to say that Burr did not call. 
In desperation he addressed a memo- 
rial to the Emperor himself, praying 
for an interview. But there came no 
response from Napoleon. Disappointed 
at the ill success of his efforts, he de- 
cided to give up entirely his scheme for 
the independence of Mexico and re- 



turn to America. When he applied for 
his passports he found to his great sur- 
prise that these were denied him No 
explanation was forthcoming, save that 
he would not be permitted to leave the 
country. It did not take Burr lone to 
learn that there was a conspiracy 
amongst certain American residents of 
Paris not only to keep him in France, 
but also to make his life there as mis- 
erable as possible. It was agreed that 
any American citizen who should con- 
verse with or even salute him was to 
be shunned in turn by his fellow-coun- 
trymen. His mail, too, was inter- 
cepted, and captains of incoming and 
outgoing vessels were forbidden to de- 
liver any letter or package to him, or 
take any from him. He was to be 
an exile in the fullest sense, of that 

Cut off from remittances from Amer- 
ica, and with apparently no hope of re- 
ceiving assistance in France, he soon 
found himself in a serious predica- 
ment. His finances were already at 
their lowest, winter was approaching, 
and his prospect of even existing was 
gloomy. Yet he took his condition 
philosophically, attributing it entirely 
to the influence and machinations of 
Talleyrand and the American ambas- 
sador at Paris. "How sedate one is 
with only three sous," he wrote in his 
diary. He took quarters in the cheap- 
est of lodging places, and purchased 
only the absolute necessities of life, 
often going without fire in order that 
he might be able to purchase food 

Extracts from his diary written dur- 
ing this period indicate the privations 
that he was forced to endure. Under 
date of November 23, 1810, we find 
this item : "Nothing from America, 
and really I shall starve. Borrowed 
three francs to-day. Four or five little 
debts keep me in constant alarm." And 
again, a few days later, he writes : 
"Went at Denon's ; thought I might as 
well go to vSt. Pelasgie; set off, but 
recollected I owed the woman who sits 
in the passage two sous for a segar, so 
turned about to pursue my way by 
Pont des Arts, which Avas within fifty 
paces; remembered I had not where- 

with to pay the toll, being two sous; 
had to go all the way round by the 
Pont Royal, more than half a mile " 

His diary is filled with similar details, 
and yet there is not to be found any- 
where in it a single melancholy or dis- 
consolate expression. Suspected and 
watched by the French government os- 
tracized by his own countrymen, with- 
out occupation, money or friends, this 
remarkable man continued cheerful, 
firm and dignified. Amongst the Amer- 
ican colonists in Paris, Burr soon dis- 
covered a friend in the person of Ed- 
ward Griswold, a former member of the 
New York bar, who advanced him a 
sum sufficient to meet his expenses, 
and promised also to pay his passage to 
America, provided a passport could be 
obtained. A small portion of the money 
thus advanced Burr laid aside for the 
purposes intended by Griswold, but the 
greater part he at once, with charac- 
teristic generosity and imprudence in- 
vested in expensive presents for Theo- 
dosia and her son, "Gampillo." 

He now changed the course of his so- 
licitations. Instead of seeking Mexi- 
can independence, he now sought after 
his own. For months his days and 
nights were spent in writing letters and 
seeking audiences with ministers and 
court officials in an almost vain effort 
to secure the necessary passport. Again 
he addressed a memorial to Napoleon, 
eloquently setting forth his circum- 
stances, but again there was no re- 
sponse. At last Count Denon, who had 
been with Napoleon in Egypt, and for 
whom the Emperor had a profound re- 
gard, learning of Burr's deplorable con- 
dition, interceded in his behalf and se- 
cured Napoleon's consent, and Burr 
was permitted to quit France. In some 
mysterious way, however, the pass- 
port, which required the signatures of 
various officials of the French govern- 
ment, was lost or stolen before it 
reached Burr, and he was force 1 to 
wait patiently six long months before 
he could obtain another one. When a 
second one was finally made out a new 
obstacle presented itself to prevent his 
departure. He had during his enforced 
stay in Paris existed only by the grace 



Thkodosia Burr 

of numerous creditors who, as soon as 
they learned that he intended to cuit 
France, demanded that their accounts 
against him be first settled. Burr again 
appealed to Count Denon, who, not be- 
ing a man of wealth himself, obtained 
a loan for him from the rich Due de 

Eagerly he took passage for America 
on the "Vigilant." Wherever he had 
gone and whatever misfortunes had be- 
fallen him, he had always been sus- 
tained by the encouraging letters of 

Theodosia. In France the government 
had prevented many of her letters from 
reaching him. Her enforced silence 
had been a source of great pain to him, 
and it was with the anxious, hopeful 
heart of an affectionate father that he 
now turned his eyes oceanward. His 
hopes, however, were mingled with 
fresh fears. Difficulties had arisen be- 
tween England and America, and Burr 
realized that vesesls leaving France for 
America were in danger of capture. 
The "Vigilant" had scarcely reached 



the high seas when it was seized by a 
British frigate and taken to England 
as a prize and Burr found himself an 
unwilling inhabitant of a country from 
which he had been driven two years 
before. With but little money, he now 
made his way to London, where he 
eked out an existence by selling his 
books and a collection of coins, and 
pawning the presents that he had pur- 
chased for his daughter and his grand- 
son. He still continued to keep a 
diary, and in it he records his London 

"I find my appetite," he says, "in the 
inverse ratio to my purse, and I now 
conceive why the poor eat so much 
when they can get it. Considering the 
state of my finances, resolved to-day to 
lay out the whole instantly in necessi- 
ties, lest some folly or some beggar 
should rob me of a shilling. Bought, 
viz., half a pound of beef, eightpence; 
a quarter of a pound of ham, sixpence ; 
one pound of brown sugar, eightpence ; 
two pounds of bread, eightpence ; ten 
pounds of potatoes, fivepence ; having 
left elevenpence, treated myself to a 
pot of ale, eightpence; and now, with 
threepence in my purse, have read the 
second volume of 'Ida.' " 

Upon this supply of food he lived for 
eight days, cooking his own meals. 
After months of this life he finally suc- 
ceeded, by selling the balance of his 
books and borrowing from friends, in 
securing for a second time passage to 
America. His life in London had been 
one of extreme poverty and he left 
England without regret, remarking 
that he hoped never to visit that coun- 
try again, unless at the head of fifty 
thousand men. 

It was not without danger to himself 
that Burr landed in Boston. Govern- 
ment prosecutions still hung over his 
head, and numerous New York cred- 
itors were anxiously waiting for the 
opportunity to put him in jail for debt. 
He, therefore, concealed his identity 
from the public. Disguised with a wig, 
false whiskers and strange garments, 
and under the name of A. Arnot. he 
took lodgings at a small boarding- 
house kept by the widow of a sea cap- 

tain near one of the Boston wharves. 
But Burr was a man of great activity, 
and this life of seclusion that he was 
compelled to lead soon proved exceed- 
ingly irksome. Throwing aside his dis- 
guise, he went to New York, deter- 
mined to risk the consequences. With 
a capital of ten dollars and a large law 
library which he borrowed from a re- 
tired lawyer whom he had once be- 
friended, he opened up a law office at 
number 23 Nassau street, and boldly 
announced that fact in the newspapers. 
In earlier days he had been associated 
with Hamilton and others in some of 
New York's most important cases, and 
his reputation as a successful advocate 
had not been forgotten by the people 
of New York. His office was soon 
crowded with litigants, and within 
twelve days he had been given retainer 
fees amounting in all to over two thou- 
sand dollars. 

In high spirits he wrote to Theodo- 
sia, telling her of his prosperity and his 
hopeful future. To his cheerful letter 
came a heartbreaking one from Theo- 
dosia, stating that Gampillo, his grand- 
son, of whom he was so passionately 
fond, and for whom ' he had walked 
the streets of London and Paris in 
search of pretty trinkets, was dead. 
The shock was a severe one to Burr, 
and he never ceased to grie\e over the 
child's sudden death. Then came the 
great climax of Burr's unhappy, tragic 
life. The grief of Theodosia over the 
death of her only child was inconsol- 
able. Her health failed her and her 
mind became bewildered. The letters 
she wrote to her father were full only 
of grief and despair. At last, Burr, 
thinking his influence would restore 
her health and happiness, determined 
to have her visit New York, and for, 
that purpose he sent a physician* to 
Charleston, S. C, to accompany her on 
the journey. They embarked for New 
York on a pilot boat, the Patriot It 
was a staunch craft and was expected 
to make the trip in five or six days. 
Soon after departing, terrific storms 
raged all along the Atlantic coast, and 
the Patriot was never heard of again. 
What was its fate or the fate of its pas- 



Alexander Hamilton 

sengers was never learned. It was 
often rumored that the boat had been 
captured by pirates and the passengers 
and crew murdered. Years afterward 
two criminals executed at Norfolk Va., 
gave some substance. to this story by 
declaring that they were members of a 
band of "bankers" who had wrecked 
and pillaged the Patriot. 

When it was suggested to Burr that 
the Patriot might have been captured 
by pirates, and that Theodosia might 

still be alive, he replied: "No, no; she 
is indeed dead. Were she alive, all the 
prisons in the world could not keep her 
from her father." She was his realiza- 
tion of an ideal woman, and all his 
hopes and affections had been centered 
in her and her child. Now that they 
were dead, hope, happiness and ambi- 
tion no doubt died within him. Yet to 
the outside world he bore his heavy 
affliction stoicly. He was not of a na- 
ture to give way to open grief or de- 



spair. It was a part of his creed to 
make fortitude a virtue, and to take the 
inevitable without a murmur. The seal 
that he most frequently used upon his 
correspondence was a rock, solitary in 
the midst of a tempestuous sea, with 
the inscription: "Nee flatu nee fluctu" 
— neither by wind nor wave. 

Often he was seen walking along the 
Battery, gazing wistfully oceanward, 
with the fond, faint hope perhaps that 
some day his Theodosia would return ; 
and passing pedestrians at night often 
noticed an old man sitting silent and 
alone before an old baise table in a 
dusty law office. But Burr never 
prated his sorrows to the world; never 
gave voice to remorse or despair, either 
by mouth or pen, and the world was 
kept in ignorance of the thoughts that 
must have surged -through the old 
man's brain as he sat alone without a 
wife, brother, sister, child or lineal de- 
scendant and reviewed, perhaps, the 
strange triumphs, tragedies and mis- 
fortunes through which he had passed. 

The # Patriot was lost "in 1813. For 
twenty years after, Burr continued to 
live in New York a life of unusual ac- 
tivity. He was up at dawn and at his 
office, working zealously in the inter- 
ests of his numerous clients ; for de- 
spite the odium still attached to his 
name, his wonderful ability as an advo- 

cate brought him many intricate cases 
involving large sums, and enabling him 
to make enormous fees, which were al- 
most immediately eaten up by his nu- 
merous creditors — -most of whom were 
holders of Mexican debts — who had a 
habit of falling upon him from time to 
time with such vindictive fury that it 
required all his ingenuity to keep out 
of jail. What his creditors did not get, 
charity obtained, for Burr was always 
a lavish giver to those who appealed to 
him for aid. His home was a rendez- 
vous for men like Luther Martin and 
Dr. Hosack, whom age or intemper- 
ance had rendered unfit to continue the 
battle of life. . 

In 1883, while walking with a friend 
down lower Broadway, Burr suddenly 
came to a halt and sank heavily into 
the arms of his friend. "What is the 
matter, colonel?" asked the friend "I 
don't know," was the reply; "some- 
thing seems to be the matter; I can't 
step. There's no feeling in my limbs." 

That was the beginning of the end. 
For three years Burr suffered uncom- 
plainingly with paralysis. In the end 
he was himself an object of charity. 
September 14, 1836, at the age of 
eighty, he breathed his last in a lodging 
house, where he was sheltered by the 
daughter of an army officer whom he 
had once befriended. 



How grimly, in the grey, uncertain dawn, 

He sits his shadowy, midnight steed, 
Enwreathed in night-fog, but writ deep upon 

His brow the daring of the dragon-breed, 
Like some dark specter which the dreadful womb 

Of night casts up into our peaceful morn, 
Breathing of wars and fratricidal gloom. 

Destiny incarnate, yet unborn, 
He looks abroad, implacable and stern, 

And steadfast, bending somber, sightless eyes 
Beyond the baubles that our times display, 
Into the glowing East as to discern, 

Amid the splendors of its flaming skies, 
His country's fortunes brightening with the day. 

The External Feminine 


With the fast-disappearing bits of 
snow from the bare, brown earth come 
new flashes of color in the field of fash- 
ion. Brown in many shades, green — 
mainly in the emerald tones — queer 
tones of red, some of them on the brick 
and mahogany blend, and black, black, 
black! Black in the dull taffetas, black 
in the lustrous silks and crepes, and re- 
lieved in many instances with slight 
gilt trimming and dead-white some- 
where ; at the throat, perhaps, or white 
plumes in the black hat. Old rose, too, 
will have its share of recognition 
among spring and summer colors. 

One new gown in a modiste's show- 
room was of leaf-green crepe satin. 
The long-pointed tunic fell over a skirt 
formed of a side-pleated flounce. The 
tunic, instead of falling loose from the 
skirt, was caught to it in a slight puff. 
The front of the tunic was embroidered 
in black, dark green and blue: 

The top of the bodice betrays the 
drooping shoulder line, which is back 
in fashion and likely to remain for sev- 
eral seasons. 

The sleeve had a short cap and cut 
in one with the bodice. This, of course, 
lengthens the shoulder effect. 

The decolletage is shallow and 
square, and there is an extra-wide band 
of the embroidery around the figure, 
under the arms and across the edge of 
the short sleeve. 

Another new model is of grass-green 
mousseline over deep-cream satin the 
skirt bordered with deep-green velvet. 
A tunic that drips from shoulder to 
hem on one side and is slashed up to 
the hip on the other, of dotted-green 
mousseline, bordered with braid em- 
broidery in the same color. 

Above the belt — there is sure to be a 
belt these days — the material is drawn 

up in folds to the shoulder, and in 
wider folds around the arm to the el- 
bow. A line of brown fur runs like a 
mad hare from waist to shoulder, back, 
and front. The rounded yoke with 
stock is of darned net. The belt is of 
turquoise blue velvet, drawn up to the 
slightly high waist line in the back 

Belts are essential this season; even 
coats for street wear have them of the 
material, or of soft patent leather. 
Coats for motoring and driving have 
heavily-stitched belts attached to the 
foundations and lifted slightly above 
the waist line. 

The belts of the season are neither 
simple nor inconspicuous. They are 
resplendent and expensive, suggestive 
of all the eastern gorgeousness They 
are of metal net, heavily embroidered 
in gold and silver, in crystals and 
beads, taking the form of Egyptian 
characters and symbols. 

Many of the very dressy belts are 
outlined at both edges with a band of 
brilliant sequins in such colors as tur- 
quoise, peacock green, blue, Burgundy 
red and black. Others, massive and 
heavy, are made of linked metal, set 
with heavy stones and ending in huge 
buckles. One cannot call them artis- 
tic, but they are fashionable. They 
can be prettily imitated with the heavy 
metal mesh nets, which hold any 
amount of embroidery worked out in 
attractive designs. These fit into the 
form with more grace than do the 
metal ones. The stiff belts are no 
longer worn. They were very well in 
the days of slender waists, but now, 
with the statistical twenty-eight-inch 
measurement, well, they simply won't 
do— that's all. 

While patent leather is the pre- 
ferred stock for leather belts, there is 




a great deal of saddle leather used. 
There are two distinct ways of wearing 
these belts, and the preferable one is 
that which lifts the waist line without 
destroying its curve. This is easily 
managed by the strips through which 
the belt runs. 

The new sleeves are indeed radical, 
to say the least. To see one sleeve 
trimmed with lace and the other stud- 
ded with jet and metal is sufficiently 
eccentric, but a shivering shudder is 
produced by the sight of one sleeve in 
lace and pink chiffon and the other of 
green velvet and marten fur ! 

The sleeve used chiefly in blouses 
has its fullness confined in a cap ai: the 
top, and is finished with a long, tight 
cuff. Some of the very dressy blouses 
have sleeves of a short kimono shape, 
over a long, tucked cuff of transparent 
fabric. The three-quarter sleeve is on 
the way. It is seen in coats, house- 
gowns, smart blouses and top wraps. 

The sleeves of the new evening 
gowns are very picturesque. A sort of 
scarf drapery sleeve, which is very ef- 
fective, made of metal tulle, embroid- 
ered. This sleeve is put into the arm- 
hole with folds at the under seam ; is 
cut three-quarter length under the arm 
and long enough to reach the hem of 
the gown at back. This is finished 
with galoon or satin In the majority 
of ball dresses the sleeves are made of 
the dress material and garnished with 
lace, embroidery and jewels, or em- 
broidery and lace. 

About Tailor-Mades 

The new tailor-mades have the usual 
variety of novel touches that a change 
of season is apt to bring. The shorten- 
ing of the coats is no longer a rumor ; 
the play on tunic draperies, collars and 
cuffs handsomely embroidered with 
silk and metallic threads, or blended 
with embroidery and braid, with the 
prevailing touch of gilt is endless. 

Some of the coats close with a half- 
dozen buttons, taking only the space, 
however, occupied by three or four 
larger ones in other garments. Few 
buttons, seriously and in a matter-of- 
fact style, down the front. More coats 

with two and three buttons are seen 
than of anything else In some of the 
elaborate tailor-mades in which braid 
is used lavishly, braid or cord frogs 
close the front. 

Linings are again ornamental In 
tailor-mades they are otherwise severe, 
as well as in elaborate ones ; the linings 
are vivid — cherry-colored, green, rose, 
pale tan, or they are polka-dotted or 

Many coats are cut to slope from 
the front toward the back, and other 
fancy shapes are daily appearing. It 
looks now as though little fancy coats 
would be dressy coats. The skirt is 
gored and plain. 

As to belts, there is an endless play 
on the ingenuity of the manufacturers. 
A good many patent leather belts, or 
belts in which patent leather and cloth 
are combined, are seen with Russian 
blouses, which are strong at this mo- 
ment. In other cases the belts are 
handsomely braided or gorgeously em- 
broidered to match the collar or repeat 
some color scheme in the rest of the 
suit. Belts are in many cases in direct 
contrast to the coat, and, it might be 
added, are also contrasted with waist 
and skirt in gowns. 

Some of the three-piece suits are es- 
pecially effective. An entirely new idea 
is to have the upper part of the princess 
gown of polka-dotted silk, while the 
lower part below the hips is of cloth 
like the coat. In such cases the lining 
of the coat is like the upper part of the 

Until early vacation time novelties 
will continue to arrive in the suit de- 
partments, and it is far from probable 
that the majority of innovations or the 
most interesting ones have as yet ap- 

Truly Summer Things 

There are »scores of filmy, white 
frocks which, while following the gen- 
eral lines of the lingerie models, include 
no lingerie material at all — which are 
built up of hand-embroidered white 
silk mousseline and fine hand-embroid- 
ered net and laces. 

Irish lace, which showed signs of 



comes boldly to the 
with such 
frocks, but the Italian laces have ar. in- 
creasing vogue, and where expense 
need not be considered, real Venetian 
plays' a considerable part in these su- 
perb frocks of sheer white. 

Princess lines are being adapted to 
this type of model, though the sheerer 
and less striking lingerie models show 
a decided leaning toward the one-piece 
blouse and skirt lines and to girdled 
effects. You see these latter ideas de- 
velop, too, in the heavily embroid- 
ered and heavy lace-trimmed models, 
but they are hardly so successful as the 
long, unbroken lines. 

Sheer robes of mousseline or linen, 
fine lace and hand-embroidery, are 
often accompanied by superb coats of 
heavier lace, usually Irish; this heavy 
lace in small quantities being also min- 
gled with the fine lace of the robe. A 
striking model of this class, shown in 
a Fifth avenue shop, has a novel fea- 
ture in the studding of the handsome 
Irish lace coat, with brilliant cut jet 
disks, and the idea, though bizarre, 
works out more attractively than you 
would imagine. 

As for the useful little lingerie frocks 
that will actually stand tubbing, they 
are already with us in great quantities ; 
and, though the really dainty models 
are not extraordinarily cheap, they are 
not at all in the same class with the 
more gorgeous frocks such as are illus- 
trated in the central group. For the 
average woman they are infinitely more 
desirable, and, luckily, even the home 
seamstress can, if clever, achieve ex- 
cellent results along this line. 

Cheap one-piece models are offered 
in the shops and are often altogether 
admirable in design, having more ca- 
chet than that same home seamstress 
is likely to obtain ; but the difficulty is 
that these pretty, effecive models are 
in cheap materials, and are usually so 
carelessly put together that they 
quickly go to pieces with laundering, 
or even with ordinary wear. 

If you can afford the initial expense,, 
it is nice, and in the long run economi- 
cal, to buy the more expensive frock of 

the same class made by some one of the 
little establishments that specialize in 
such tub frocks and in lingerie blouses, 
or to buy good material and have them 
made up carefully and conscientiously 
under your own supervision. Handker- 
chief linen, the French linon, while ex- 
pensive, gives better service than any 
other very fine and dainty lingerie ma- 
terial, and is a better investment than 
batiste or mull ; but either of these lat- 
ter materials make up attractively and 
the fine cotton etamines and cotton 
crepes are also desirable and will be 
much used. 

Some of the fine lawns, too, can be 
used, though most of them have too 
much body and not enough softness for 
the best effects. Good German Valen- 
ciennes is the favored trimming and 
need not be real to be satisfactory ; but 
the narrow cluny, or Irish, with which 
it is almost invariably associated, 
should be real lace, and it is far better 
to use a very small quantity of the real 
article than to lavish cheaper lace upon 
the frock. 

The narrow Irish veining, narrow, 
plain crochet insertion and hand-tucks 
are not expensive trimmings, but give 
delightful effects ; and there are expen- 
sive embroidery bands, motifs, edges 
and flouncings which may be combined, 
with the lace, though the most attrac- 
tive frocks of moderate price have only 
the laces and hand-tuckings. Hand- 
embroidery is, of course, an enormous 
addition if it is fine and beautiful but 
much of the sort used now upon the 
cheaper blouses and frocks is b}^ no 
means beautiful, and cheapens rather 
than improves the garment. 

There are plenty of little shops in un- 
pretentious quarters now where such 
simple one-piece lingerie frocks, hand- 
made, trimmed in valenciennes, a little 
real cluny or Irish and perhaps a very 
little hand-embroidery, will be made to 
order from $40 to $50 ; and, though this 
may seem to some women a pretty high 
price for a very simple tub frock, it 
must be remembered that the simpli- 
city is of a very dainty kind, and that 
the frock will serve many summer pur- 
poses and stand frequent journeys to 



the laundry. From this price the well- 
made lingerie frock of good materials 
mounts in price until it reaches giddy 

The linen frocks come next on the 
list of serviceable tub frocks, and here 
you find temptation on every hand. 
Such delectable little frocks they are, 
now that weavers and dyers in com- 
bination have achieved altogether de- 
sirable things in linen. The range of 
colors this season is more beautiful 
than ever before and the weaves amaz- 
ingly varied, though most of them have 
the softness which gives them the sem- 
blance of the hand-woven linens, and 
makes them both more beautiful and 
more serviceable than the stifler, shi- 
nier-surfaced linens of an earlier day 

Some of the new weaves have a de- 
cided luster, but it is not the old shine. 
Rather, it is a mercerizing, which gives 
to the soft, loose-woven linen the ap- 
pearance of a tussor. The makers vow 
that this luster remains intact after re- 
peated launderings, but that must be 
determined after experience. 

There are all sorts of diagonal-weave 
linens, embroidered linens, bordered 
linens, striped linens, checked linens, 
dotted linens, corded linens, etc. ; but 
the linen par excellence is the soft, 
dull-finished weave of hand-woven as- 
pect, and in this one finds innumerable 
lovely colorings. One of the most 
prominent and popular color lines runs 
through the gold and buff and citron 
and corn color tones into, the light 
ecrus and natural tones at one extreme, 
and into the khakis, ripe peach and vari- 
ous light browns at the darker extreme. 

Such cool, soft, lovely, yellow tones 
have never before been seen in linens ; 
and, though they echo hues popular in 
winter materials, they come with a 
freshness and a surprise in the linens 
and in the cottons, where also they 
hold a conspicuous place. 

A house whose linen frocks are 
noted is. showing a large number of 
charming models in these yellow lin- 

ens, usually with touches of white for 
relief, a little white-band embroidery, a 
collar of embroidered white linen or 
pique, a tiny collarless guimpe of white 
pique, set with rows of very fine, yel- 
low soutache, matching the linen; a 
collar and frill of lingerie and lace or 
some such becoming device A note of 
black, too, is most effective on these 
yellow tones, and is usually introduced 
in a cravat or tiny bow, though in coat 
suits the collar and cuffs, or merely the 
collar, may be faced with black, and a 
note of black may be introduced in the 
making of the buttons. 

A little black enters into many of the 
white linen and natural linen coat- 
suits and one-piece frocks, and is usu- 
ally very effective, bat unless remova- 
ble it makes cleansing instead of laun- 
dering a necessity. Cleansing is the 
better method for the linen coat in any 
event, for few are the laundresses who 
can do up such a suit without destroy- 
ing its shapeliness ; but a cleanser is 
not always available at short notice, 
and it is difficult to get much service 
out of a light-hued linen unless it can 
be put frequently into the tub. 

The blues are to be immensely popu- 
lar among linens and are always practi- 
cal, because, save in the very light 
tones, they do not soil quickly, and the 
blue dyes stand the onslaught of the 
laundress more sturdily than most 
dyes do. 

The dark tones of blue are particu- 
larly lovely this season. Never before 
have the manufacturers obtained such 
results, and we should see much of 
these darker blue linens, relieved and 
given coolness by a touch of white. A 
long line of pink and rose linens chal- 
lenges admiration, and there are some 
delightfully cool, soft greens and grays. 

Collarless neck effects are many 
among the linens, but even where the 
model is of this type it is usually pos- 
sible to add a tiny guimpe of lingerie 
or lace for the woman to whom the ex- 
posed throat is unbecoming. 


One must read very carefully and 
thoughtfully the straightforward and 
modest account of the results already 
accomplished in Chelsea since the fire 
to foregather any conception of the 
herculean task which faced the Board 
of Control appointed by Governor Dra- 
per to meet that emergency. 

Undertaken originally as a provi- 
sional arrangement, the type of civic 
organization which it represents is so 
thoroughly in line with the most sanely 
progressive ideas of our own time as 
to arouse the hope among thoughtful 
people that the arrangement may be 
continued after the present term of 
office shall have expired. 

The personnel of the board in a 
large measure accounts for its success, 
and this is the strongest argument for 
the plan of municipal government of 
which it is a type, that it is able to com- 
mand the services of such men. 

Mr. W. E. McClintock, chairman of 
j the board, is a civil engineer of high 
I standing. He was for ten years chair- 
Iman of the Massachusetts Highway 
Commission, has served as city engi- 
neer of Chelsea for many years, and is 
thoroughly familiar with municipal 
works and with Chelsea conditions and 
requirements. In other words the 
chairman of the board is an intelligent 
and experienced expert. 

Mr. Mark Wilmarth of Maiden, mem- 
ber of the board, is also a civil engineer. 
He is a graduate of the Worcester Poly- 
technic Institute, and has been engaged 
in much important work, particularly 
as United States government inspector 
of large works, in which capacity he 
has become intimately familiar with 
contracts for public work. 
Mr. Alton C. Ratschesky of Boston 

and Beverly, member of the board, is a 
financier of high standing and long ex- 
perience. He is president of the United 
States Trust Company and of the Chel- 
sea Trust Company. He is also a mem- 
ber of the State Board of Charities and 
engaged in many lines of public ac- 
tivity. As financial adviser, his pres- 
ence on the board is invaluable. 

Mir. Alton E. Briggs, graduate from 
Dartmouth College, member of the 
board, was for many years a public- 
school teacher, and for twenty-one 
years in the Chelsea High School. He 
is a resident of Chelsea and an expert 
in educational matters. His efficient 
planning is seen in the broad lines that 
have been laid down for the future de- 
velopment of Chelsea's school system. 

Mr. George H. Dunham, member of 
the board, is an experienced business 
man, for many years with the Cobb, 
Bates & Yerxa Company. His skill as 
an accountant and minute familiarity 
with market values, as well as his broad 
experience in the details of practical 
business, are of the highest valae to 
the board. 

Mr. Charles H. Read, city clerk of 
Chelsea for many years, was appointed 
executive secretary of the board. This 
appointment, aside from the high per- 
sonal fitness of Mr. Read, serves as a 
connecting link between the board and 
the regular city organization. 

We have given so much space to this 
statement of the personnel of the board 
because we believe it to be the impor- 
tant part of the story. The problem of 
municipal government is the problem 
of securing the right men in positions 
of official responsibility and authority. 

If the Chelsea method can do this, as 
it has done so, it is a sign of the times 
most full of hope. 





The illustration printed herewith of 
lumbering operations within forty miles 
of Boston calls sharp attention to the 
pressing nature of the problem of for- 
•est preservation. We are free to admit 
that it is a problem, and a difficult one, 
however warmly our sympathies may 
be engaged on the side of preservation. 
The land here undergoing the process 
of denudation is the property of a 
farmer, who, without doubt, needs the 

passing of laws and educational cam- 


The Boston Opera Company, after a 
western tour that was by no means de- 
void of satisfactor}^ results, has begun 
the second series of its first season in 

The effort to keep close to the pop- 
ular interest is even more apparent 
than at first. A new issue of stock is 
advertised and bids fair to be over- 
subscribed. The very best talent at 

Lumbering operations within eorty miees oe Boston 

money which the timber brings. "In- 
telligent forestry," as thus far under- 
stood and practiced, is for states and 
nations, or, at least, for large capital- 
ists. Jf we are to preserve, not simply 
our great forests, but to some degree, 
at least, those lesser groves that occur 
here and there in our more settled dis- 
tricts, to the amelioration of our cli- 
mate and the beauty of our landscape, 
there must be something more than the 

the disposal of the management is of- 
fered for the popular-priced nights. 
The announcement is made that the 
first series of performances in Boston 
were carried out at a net profit over 
actual operating expense — permanent 
or partially permanent equipment be- 
ing fairly regarded as capital invest- 

The discovery is already made that 
the Boston public desire a very high- 



class presentation, and that the opera 
company will be able to supply this, 
the most hopeful indication is not so 
much what has been done as the splen- 
did esprit de corps of the organization 
that is evident from the zest and sin- 
cerity of the preparatory rehearsals 


The new comet, discovered by Pro- 
lessor Innes at Johannesburg, January 
17, and known in astronomical circles 
as comet 1910-A (or the first new 
comet discovered in 1910),, which was 
bright enough to be seen in broad day- 
light, has now become a telescopic ob^ 
ject. Comet 1910-A had a length of 
20,000,000 miles, and its nucleus, or the 
solid part, a diameter of 4000 miles (a 
little larger than Mars). The danger 
of collision is past for the time being, 
for the sudden visitor is rushing away 
from our system at the diminishing 
rate of 1,000,000 miles a minute. The 
spectrum of the comet showed it to be 
of the hydro-carbon type. Why this 
comet was not discovered before it at- 
tained such brilliancy is explained by 
the fact that it sneaked up behind the 
sun in a path like a lady's hairpin, so 
that it was hidden from observers on 
the earth until it rounded the sun. 
Many people have mistaken this comet 
for Halley's comet. Halley's comet is 
in the constellation Pisces for the first 
half of March, when it pasess behind 
the sun to observers on the earth. It 
is still too faint to be seen with the 
naked eye, and will be visible as a 
naked-eye object about April 1. As- 
tronomers have discovered the pres- 
ence of the deadly cyanogen gas in the 
tail of the comet. As the earth passes 
through the tail, it is interesting to 
speculate on the result of the earth's 
immersion. The earth has passed 
through tails of comets before, the last 
time within the memory of people liv- 
ing now; and, aside from a night 
lighted up almost like moonlight, no 
evil effects happened. Astronomers 
predict with certainty a shower of me- 
teors about May 19, when the earth 
passes through the tail. Another faint 
comet in the north, which will be vis- 

ible to the naked eye, is being watched 
with interest by astronomers. The 
brilliant winter constellations, Orion, 
Canis Major, Canis Minor and Gem- 
ini, are now sweeping toward the west, 
promising spring to come. Venus, the 
bright evening star of January, will 
now be a morning star; Mars and Sat- 
urn, side by side, are moving toward 
the sun. Jupiter, the brightest object 
in the east, rises about nine o'clock, 
and is in a fine position for observation 
by telescope throughout March and 

The past month has been notable for 
the number of plays that have held 
their own, week after week, with no 
sign of diminished interest. At the 
Park Theatre, "The Man From Home," 
with William Hodge in the role of Dan- 
iel Voorhees Pike, has been running to 
crowded houses since January 3. It is 
probably the most-talked-of play in 
Boston this month. "Have you seen 
'The Man From Home'?" is the cor- 
rect greeting in all manner of social 
gatherings. "Full of fun and with 
something to it as well, and without be- 
ing a problem play," is the usual com- 

"Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm," at 
the Tremont Theatre, is another play 
that is enjoying a very successful run. 

Maude Adams, at the Hollis, in 
"What Every Woman Knows," was a 
limited engagement but crowded the 
house at special prices. 

At the new Shubert Theatre Few 
Field's production of "The Midnight 
Sons" has enjoyed the same highly 
satisfactory experience. 

The Colonial Theatre has been pre- 
senting limited engagement plays, but 
they have held to 'the limit with a good, 
hard pull. 

It is difficult not to philosophize, turn 
a few wise saws as to what "the peo- 
ple" want and offer advice — but we re- 
frain. These plays succeeded because 



the people liked them, and they in- 
cluded about every kind and style of 
play that is attempted in modern times. 
They were all good plays and well 
acted, and that is probably one reason 

engagement at the Hollis Street The- 
atre February 28. This will be followed 
by "The Traveling Salesman," which 
opens March 14. "The Sham" is a 
new play, "The Traveling Salesman" 


for their success. They also succeeded 
because they succeeded, and the per- 
petual uncertainty as to what will and 
what will not- succeed had best be ac- 
cepted as so much addition to the spice 

of life. 


Henrietta Crosman, in a new play, 
"The Sham," will open a two weeks' 

not an old one, but already an old favor- 
ite. "The Sham" comes from Germany, 
which fact to thoughtful play-goers 
usually signifies firmness of technique 
and solid dramatic construction. When 
in addition to this the author has a real 
and humanly interesting story to tell, 
the result is about as satisfying as any- 
thing on the stage can be. "The Trav- 



eling Salesman" is too well known to 
call for any descriptive account. It is 
the personification of good humor and 
deservedly popular. 

At the Colonial Theatre, Kyrle Bel- 
lew, in a new four-act play, "The 
Builder of Bridges," by Alfred Sutro, 
author of "The Walls of Jericho," is 
booked for a two weeks' engagement, 
beginning March 7. The scene shifts 
from Mrs. Debney's drawing-room to 
the office of Sir Henry Killick and 
partners, Great George street, and the 
story is of London and to-day, strenu- 
osity and ennui, high life and high 
finance. Kyrle Bellew is an attraction. 
Alfred Sutro has done excellent work 
in the past, and the combination looks 
good in advance. On the twenty-first 
"The Harvest Moon," a new play by 
Augustus Thomas, will replace "The 
Bridge Builders." No member of the 
cast is to be particularly starred in this 
production, and to many people this is 
a very satisfying arrangement, and 
seems to forecast a good, all-round pro- 

At the Park Theatre, "The Man 
From Home" shows no sign of waning 
interest, and the play bids fair to hold 
the boards through the entire.month. 

The same appears to be true of "The 
Midnight Sons," at the Shubert. The 
management are already making ad- 
vance sales of seats weil into March. 
"The Midnight Sons" is full of bright, 
playful music, and its descriptive title 
of " a musical moving picture" is cor- 
rect, but gives little idea of its many 
bright features. 

At the Majestic the March attraction 
will be "Is Marriage a Failure?" This 
is a merry comedy, adapted from "Die 
Thur Ins Freie," which is one of the 
current successes in Vienna and Ber- 
lin. Ten husbands, ten wives, a lawyer 
and a lady produce the uproarious com- 
plications. The scenes of the play are 
laid in Rosedale, a small country town. 

At the Tremont Theatre, March 7, 
Raymond Hitchcock, in "The Man 
Who Owns Broadway," will be a very 
strong attraction. Play and actor are 
both well known and general favorites. 

There is an unspeakable pleasure 
which comes from the intimacy, so to 
speak, which pervades the atmosphere 
of a recital by Mrs. H. H. A. Beach. 
This pleasure was afforded a host of 
admiring friends on Thursday even- 
ing, February 10, at Steinert Hall. 
Mrs. Beach is always a favorite as a 
pianist and a composer. Excellent and 
scholarly musicianship, real artistic 
temperament and a delghtfully genuine 
personality — a rare combination of 
qualities — breathes forth, through the 
medium of music and Mrs. Beach, an 
experience of realest and rarest delight. 
We often have our intellects musically 
fed; frequently feel the flame of emo- 
tion until our own catch fire. 

Seldom are both experiences coinci- 
dent. When listening to Mrs. Beach 
there is the coincidence, and more — a 
fragrance, as it were — as though she 
had handed you a tiny flower. And this 
means a certain intimate sympathy 
which is truly beautiful. Technically 
translated and applied, Mrs. Beach in- 
fuses into each portrayal a subtle flu- 
ency of expressiveness by means of a 
marvelous technical mastery and com- 
mand. The English Suite in A minor, 
by Bach, was fairly alive with spon- 
taneity. The churchly Bach was away 
on a vacation. We know much and 
hear much about Bach's tremendous 
and sanctified intellect, and it is a real 
delight to occasionally know him when 
a sympathetic and joyful heart is ruling 
and guiding his pen. The Casar Franck 
Prelude, Aria and Finale was another 
experience — one of beauty and full of 
awe and pity, and occasionally a very 
sane melancholy, and always a firm 
thread of faith. There is no need to 
pigeon-hole Casar Franck away as Neo- 
French. He is catholic nobleness. A 
great nature working with a master 
hand, weaving the colors into a tapes- 
try — the tree of life. The Nocturne 
by J. K. Paine was full of gentle ten- 



derness and atmosphere. The Walzer, 
Op. 6, No. 2, by Max Fiedler, are es- 
pecially attractive, and were very en- 
thusiastically received. The Goddard 
"Indtehne" was marvelously rendered 

suite for two pianos (manuscript). 
Mrs. Beach was most ably assisted by 
Mr. Carl Faelten. This is a most in- 
teresting work and most clever in its 
construction. The themes are full of 


Mrs H. H. A Beach 

and deserves especial mention. The 
Chopin Mazurkas were not the most 
characteristic ones, but were of inter- 
est and sympathetically played. The 
Chopin Etude in C minor was a bril- 
liant ending to the second group. 

The climax of interestand of achieve- 
ment was the notable performance of 
Mrs. Beach's latest work "Iverniana," a 

meaning and elaborated with brilliant 
virtuosic effects. There is a distinct 
folkish flavor present. It is a work full 
of spontaneity and the verve of ac- 
tivity. It is a picture of life being lived, 
rather than life in reflection or a mood. 
It tells of people — not a person. The 
work is thoroughly artistic and will 
undoubtedly be especially popular. 



The hall was entirely filled and the 
audience very appreciative. Mrs. 
Beach is decidedly one of our most 
worthy pianists, and of America's truly 
authoritative composers. 

The Handel and Haydn Society pre- 
sented Sir Arthur Sullivan's "Golden 
Legend" (first performance) Sunday 
evening, February 13, at Symphony 
Hall. This is a most interesting and 
dramatic work. This has been one of 
the greatest successes of this composer. 
The words are adapted from the poem 
of Longfellow. The work of Mr. H. 
Lambert Murphy deserves especial 
praise and mention. Mr. Murphy has 
a remarkable tenor voice of excellent 
quality. Although young in the musi- 
cal world, he has a most sympathetic 
temperament, and sang with much fin- 
ish. Mr. Miles had excellent opportu- 
nity — more than he took advantage of 
— to be very dramatic, in the role of 
Lucifer. Excellent work was done by 
Mrs. Kileski Bradbury and Miss Ade- 
laide Griggs. Mr. Mollenhauer, the 
conductor, has every reason to be 
proud of the performance of this inter- 
esting and wonderful work. 

An unusual degree of interest was 
manifested in an exhibition of water 
colors by F. Hopkinson Smith in 
Cobb's gallery, Boylston street. There 
is a firmness and assurance of method, 
or technique, in these productions, 
which, aside from its intrinsic value as 
a source of pleasure, removes one more 
obstacle from the interpreter's path. A 
strong and well-mastered technique be- 
comes the vehicle for a thousand and 
one fleeting impressions that he of the 
more clumsy touch may receive but 
cannot present. 


But the real storm center of artistic 
interest in Boston for the past month 
has been a little farther down Boyhton 

street, namely, the St. Gaudens memo- 
rial to Phillips Brooks. 

Fortunately or unfortunately, we 
know just a little too much about this 
striking bronze to catch a fresh impres- 
sion of its beauty and significance 

There are many men about Boston 
who knew Brooks most intimately. 
Their interest centers with the utmost 
intensity upon the portraiture. To 
them the great pulpiteer was a flaming 
spirit, and in comparison the most vi- 
talized bronze must seem cold and 
dead. From the sadness of an impos- 
sible aspiration they turn, as is hu- 
manly natural, to piecemeal criticism : 
this hand, that foot, the forward thrust 
of it, and so on. 

Then, too, we are far better informed 
than usual as to the artist's purpose, 
the inception of his idea and the man- 
ner of his working it out. For his son, 
most intimately familiar with his great 
artist-father's work, Mr. Homer St. 
Gaudens, has recently written in full on 
that subject, with reproductions of first 
sketches and a thousand and one 
touches that leave us quite fully en- 
lightened. Too fully? 1 am afraid so. 
How we would love to know some of 
these somethings about the hand that 
carved the Medicean Venus ! But, on 
the other hand, with what absolute im- 
personality, what utter freedom from 
prejudice we first gaze upon such 
works, unearthed from a forgotten past. 
They speak to us, as they were meant 
to, with their own voice, as the spirit 
that imagined them willed. 

How many years will it be before 
the dulling of familiarity will work in 
our minds something of this finer and 
larger result of time — before we will 
become less mindful of the details, ac- 
customed to the portraiture and open- 
minded toward the truth conveyed by 
the noble group that in years to come 
will be one of the most familiar features 
of Trinity? 

However that may be, it is obvious 
to any who have followed with thought- 
fulness the trend of criticism, that the 
present is no time for the passing of 
judgment upon this work. 

It is quite generally known that for 



the last few years of his life St. Gau- 
dens gave his entire strength to what 
he chose to call "inspirational work"— 
that is to say, to the representation of 
the most subjective phases of thought. 
The Brooks memorial must be so 
classed. Rightly read, it has some- 
thing to say to us. It is a Browning- 
ism in bronze. When we have read it, 
will the utterance be quite orthodox? 
Possibly not; but quite certainly it will 
be ennobling. 

Rumor has it that the artist at first 
thought of an angel as the symbol of 

This is evident : Boston has been en- 
riched. A notable piece of work has 
been done — a work of greater fidelity 
to the inner spirit than is common in 
this too commercial age, and our own 
appraisement of its value is quite cer- 
tain to increase with the years. It is 
an interesting fact that the casting of 
the bronze was accomplished by New 
England skill. The Gorham Company 
of Providence, R. I., successfully per- 
formed this most delicate and difficult 
task. A deed of trust from the citizens' 
committee conveys the custody of the 


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■'-'.'•"■:■■ .<•':'.-;/ .:';•• 

L [ ~ '"] *Ak 


the authority and impulsive power of 
the preacher. But with maturer reflec- 
tion it became more and more evident 
to him that nothing but the figure of 
Christ would do. 

To gather inspiration for the model- 
ing of that great figure he travelled and 
studied for months, seeking hungrily 
.all that might deepen reverence and 
ennoble faith. We cannot pass judg- 
ment in a moment on the work of 

memorial to the Corporation of Trinity 


Motoring with Mr. Presbrey is 
very delightful experience, which hi 
latest book, "Motoring Abroad," wil 



permit many to enjoy, to whom the 
actuality is a very remote dream. 

His own enjoyment of a tour whose 
perfect success was a real achievement 
is instantly infectious. A business 
man's efficient execution of carefully- 
laid plans is apparent in each day's 
itinerary, but no less important is his 
own determination to find a new source 
of delight in every new scene and new 
experience. Of Brittany he says : ''The 
drink of the country is the French 
cidrc, for which no charge is ever made 
at meals. To those accustomed to 
American cider, the French cidre is not 
particularly palatable, but it is a whole- 
some drink, and, after one becomes ac- 
customed to it, quite enjoyable (if you 
like it)." That spirit will certainly 
make the rough roads smooth ! 

Of very touching interest to us to- 
day is his reference to the great inun- 
dated district: — 

"If there is a more beautiful valley 
in the world, none of our party has 
even seen it. It was almost one unin- 
terrupted stretch of fields of waving 
grain, great forests, superb chateaux 
set far back from the road and ap- 
proached between avenues of trees, 
picturesque villages and long reaches 
of one of the finest views in the world. 
The air was sweet with the fragrance 
of the fields, the wheat was just in head 
and soon to be harvested, and waving 
in the breezes were great patches of 
bright-red poppies, which are found 
everywhere through the fields of 

From France the scene shifts to Eng- 
land and Wales, and the account is full 
of the same bubbling good humor, ob- 
servation of out-of-the-way but none 
the less significant scenes and inci- 

Through all this play of pleasantry 
and observation runs a continual, but 
not obtrusive, element of practical. ad- 
vice to the less experienced tourist in 
foreign parts. The prospective tour- 
ist could not fail to gain much from a 
reading of this book, which is attrac- 
tively gotten out by the Outing Com- 


In this thrilling tale of mystery 
and adventure by Anthony Partridge, 
which is one of the spring offerings of 
Little, Brown & Co., the author of "The 
Kingdom of Earth" turns to the 
strangely intermingled fortunes of a 
street singer, a hunchback, and a fa- 
mous English statesman. He closes 
with the true ending of all adventure: 
"The road was narrow and the arch- 
ing trees touched overhead. Their lips 
met for one long moment. Then she 
drew him a little toward her with an 
impulsive gesture. 

" 'I do not want you to go out to look 
for any more such dreams,' she said. 
'I am tired of wandering in foreign 
countries. I am tired of being name- 
less. I want to belong somewhere, Gil- 

"A little reckless, he took her in his 
arms. 'You belong to me,' he said. 
'The other days are finished ' " 

But before this desirable haven is 
reached there is adventure enough. 
The story is carried on by a running 
fire of fresh and breezy conversation, 
in the management of which the au- 
thor displays great talent. 


"Master Minds at the Common- 
wealth's Heart" is the title of a g/oup 
of biographical sketches by Professor 
H. Epler, author of "The Beatitude of 
Progress," etc. 

"I present these ten lives in a group 
with a purpose," declares the author in 
his "Foreword." "For zones of genius 
have always held their peculiar place 
in the history of humanity. . . We 
speak of the Concord School, and prop- 
erly. They were writers, authors, 
dreamers. But these in the Worcester 
zone of genius are not only writers and 
dreamers, but founders, creators, in- 
ventors, discoverers, 'doers of the 
word,' and not 'writers' only, and in 
this sense they are a greater zone of 
genius than that of Concord." 

In telling his story, Mr. Epler reveals 
a dramatic instinct that seizes on the 
salient points and holds the attention of 
the busiest reader. 


-Witli flic- 




The city of Lawrence, Mass., has no 
ancient history, but is a city of modern 
growth entirely. Sixty-five years ago 
there were then less than two hundred 
people living on the territory now in- 
cluded within the limits of Lawrence. 
To-day it has a population of more than 
80,000, and the next two years will un- 
doubtedly see that number increased 
to 100,000. The boom in the textile in- 
dustries is now on for Lawrence to a 
greater extent than ever before. The 
new mills which have been erected in 
Lawrence during the past year, and 
which will soon be completed and in 
running order, will furnish employ- 
ment for 7000 or 8000 new operatives. 
Several other mills are also planned for 
erection during the coming year, which 
will add still more to the number of op- 
eratives. Dwellings, stores and other 
buildings are being rapidly erected for 
the accommodation of this addition to 
the population. Public improvements 
have been, and are still being, made, 
which will add greatly to the advan- 
tages of Lawrence as a business center 
and as a home city. 

The Board of Trade, which was or- 
ganized in 1888, has had its fair share 
in helping to make the city what it is 
to-day. The leading business and pro- 
fessional men of the city are included 
in its membership, and their efforts in 
making Lawrence a better city for its 
inhabitants have been acknowledged 
and appreciated by all. One of its 
more recent efforts has been the in- 
auguration of an industrial school for 
the benefit of the working people of 
Lawrence and vicinity. This school 

was opened about a year and a half 
ago, with evening classes for those em- 
ployed in the textile industries. In Sep- 
tember, 1909, day classes were opened 
for boys and girls of fourteen years of 
age and upwards. The registration for- 
this school was far beyond the expec- 
tations of those interested in its inau- 
guration, and the results so far have 
been greatly to the advantage and im- 
provement of those attending its ses- 
sions. The state and city have appro- 
priated money for its support; many 
thousands of dollars' worth of ma- 
chinery and supplies have been gener- 
ously contributed by manufacturers 
who are interested in the principles of 
industrial education. Its great need to- 
day is for a large and suitable school 
building, where the classes and ma- 
chinery may be all gathered together 
for better work. It is hoped that this 
will be accomplished in the very near 

Lawrence has a very promising fu- 
ture before it as a great center of tex- 
tile manufacturing. The value of its 
manufactured products makes it the 
second city in the state, being only ex- 
ceeded by Boston. 

Secretary Board of Trade. 


At a largely attended special meet- 
ing called for February 8 to consider 
the annual reports of committees, the 
Boston Chamber of Commerce put it-! 
self on record, by a vote of two to one,j 
in favor of the proposed amendment to! 
the State Constitution, striking out the 
words "proportional and" in that pro- 



vision of that instrument relating to 
taxation, and permitting the classifica- 
tion of property for the purposes of 

It will be remembered that only re- 
cently the state tax commission re- 
ported to the Governor against this 
proposed amendment, which has al- 
ready been approved by one Legisla- 
ture, that of last year, and is now be- 
fore the present Legislature, in accord- 
ance with the law which requires that 
an amendment to the constitution, in 
order to become effective, must be 
passed by two separate Legislatures 
and ratified by the people at the polls. 

This amendment is one of the most 
important matters which has come be- 
fore the Legislature of Massachusetts 
in many years. It proposes to amend 
an ancient restriction imposed by the 
original framers of the constitution, 
and thereby place Massachusetts in a 
class with fourteen other states of the 
Union, which, having recognized the 
practical impossibility of enforcing a 
law which seeks to make intangible 
property pay its proportional share of 
taxation, have granted to their Legis- 
latures the power to distribute the inci- 
dences of taxation in a way which has 
proved at once more just and more 

This amendment has been favored 
by the committee on taxation of the 
Boston Chamber of Commerce since 
the consolidation with the Merchants' 
Association last June, and was also fa- 
vored by the similar committee 01 the 
old Merchants' Association, of both of 
which committees Mr. ]"ohn Chandler 
Cobb, now first vice-president of the 
Boston Chamber of Commerce, was 
chairman. It has also been earnestly 
advocated by Professor Charles J. Bul- 
lock, professor of economics at Har- 
vard University, and Mr, S. R. 
Wrightington, secretary of the manu- 
facturers and merchants' committee on 
tax laws. 

The decision of the Chamber of Com- 
merce was not reached, however, until 
after a lively debate lasting for more 
than an hour. The report of Mr. 
Cobb's committee favoring" the amend- 

ment was vigorously opposed by Mr. 
Moorfield Storey and by former Mayor 
Nathan Matthews, Jr., two of the lead- 
ing members of the Suffolk bar. They 
contended that the adoption of such an 
amendment would result in exempting 
the rich man at the expense of the 
poor ; would pave the way for the exer- 
cise of pressure on the Legislature in 
favor of special privileges, such as were 
brought to bear at Washington by the 
beneficiaries of the protective tariff; 
would open the door to socialistic leg- 
islation of the most objectionable sort, 
and would, in fact, encourage the con- 
fiscation of property through an inequi- 
table exercise of the taxing powers of 
the Legislature. 

These arguments, ably and force+ully 
presented as they were, were success- 
fully controverted by Mr. Cobb, by Mr. 
E. A. Filene, former Governor Curtis 
Guild, Jr., Laurence Minot and Mr. S. 
R. Wrightington. It was pointed out 
by them that the striking out of the 
words "proportional and" would not, 
as prophesied by Mr. Matthews, leave 
property at the mercy of the advocates 
of socialistic legislation, inasmuch as 
it was proposed to leave in the consti- 
tution the word "reasonable," which 
had been construed by the Supreme 
Court of Massachusetts as meaning 
fair and equal. They also insisted that 
unless the constitution was amended as 
proposed, the present unequal burden 
of taxation as imposed under present 
conditions would drive industries out 
of this state and thereby depress values 
generally, including those of real es- 
tate. Mr. Minot laid special emphasis 
on this point, stating that he had found 
in his experience that the value of real 
estate was always a reflection of the 
industrial and commercial activities in 
the place where the real estate was sit- 
uated, and taking issue with the asser- 
tion of Mr. Storey that the amendment 
would depress real estate value's. 

In accordance with the decisive vote 
of this meeting, the influence of the 
Chamber of Commerce is now joined 
to that of other influential bodies of 
this* state in favor of an amendment 
which, it is believed by its advocates, 



will have a far-reaching effect upon 
conditions in Massachusetts, ana do 
much to attract new capital within its 
borders and encourage further expan- 
sion on the part of great industries al- 
ready here, which contribute so much 
to the prosperity of the commonwealth. 
The officers of the Chamber of Com- 
merce believe that all those interested 
in this important subject of taxation 
cannot do better than study the argu- 
ments in favor of this amendment ad- 
duced at this meeting. 


Its Growth During Past Decade Unprece- 
dented in Its History 

The Hartford Board of Trade and 
Business Men's Association have taken 
the initial step toward consolidating as 
a Chamber of Commerce. It may be 
that the Manufacturers' Association 
and the Municipal Art Society will also 
come in, thus constituting a commer- 
cial body, working for the interest of 
the city, that will, in point of numbers 
and efficiency, be second to none in 
New England. 

Already the Board of Trade and busi- 
ness men have declared in favor of the 
step. Each organization will preserve 
its identity and carry on its own 
specific work, except where co-opera- 
tion is possible, as will be the case in 
the workings of all the general com- 
mittees. Once a year the associated 
bodies will get together as a Chamber 
of Commerce and plan out the year's 
work. They will all occupy the same 
rooms, thus making it easy for a vis- 
itor to Hartford to get into immediate 
touch with the organization desired. 


Editor New England Magazine 

At no time in its history has the 
business outlook in this town been 
more encouraging than at present Ex- 
eter, N" H., famous throughout the 
land for its schools and attractive 
homes, has quietly, but steadily, been 
improving and growing for the past 
five or six years. The growth has been 
so gradual that many of our own citi- 
zens are sceptical ; but to prove the 

statement it is only necessary to open 
one's eyes and observe actual condi- 
tions. More houses were built in 1909 
than for any year in the past ten. In 
spite of this, tenements are in demand, 
and the very few which are idle are 
empty because of lack of modern im- 
provements which are desired. 

All our various manufacturing in- 
dustries are running on full time and 
are enjoying great prosperity, with ab- 
solute freedom from labor troubles. 

The Exeter Machine Company has 
recently changed hands, and the new 
management is actively at work clean- 
ing up, rearranging and installing new 
equipment for business on new and en- 
larged plans. President Joseph H Sy- 
monds of the new company will receive 
a cordial welcome from the citizens 
and business interests of Exeter. With 
the admirable location of his shops and 
the excellent foundry connected, it is 
confidently expected that this business 
will show rapid and substantial growth. 

The Colburn box shop has recently 
been sold at auction and dismantled, but 
within a few days the purchaser, Au- 
gustus Young of this town, has sold to 
Vernon M. Hawkins the planing mill, 
shop and boiler house connected, which 
leaves to Mr. Young the large two-and- 
one-half-story building for storage or 
for sale for some new industry. 

Mr. Hawkins, who for the past year 
as manager of the Poor lumber yard 
has made many friends, will install new 
machinery in the planing mill, and will 
soon be ready to operate the plant for 
the manufacture of lumber and boxes. 

The usual spring inquiry for homes 
in this attractive town, and for farms 
in this vicinity, has started much ear- 
lier than usual, and it seems highly 
probable that real estate transfers will 
De many. This means some growth 
and much improvement. 

By the will of the late Albert C. 
Buzell, who very recently died, the 
Robinson Female Seminary will profit 
by the gift of $10,000, and the Exeter 
Cottage Hospital will receive $30,000. 

Secretary Exeter (N. H.) Board of 


Where New England Leads 

There have been many changes in 
fashions of cooking and heating appli- 
ances since the beginning of things. 
In the early part of the last century 
there was little beside the old fire-place 
and brick oven; then came the Franklin 
Heater and wood burning cook-stove, 
and so on to the goods of to-day, that 
are found on the sales floors of house- 
furnishing and hardware stores, await- 
ing removal to the well-appointed post 
of honor in the American homes. 

The old-fashioned New England 
kitchen, with its great brick fire-place, 
flanked on one side by the large brick 
oven and on the other by shelves loaded 

will be interested in learning something 
about the ranges that are recommended 
by the leading cooking-school teachers 
throughout the country, and that have 
been the "Standard of Quality for over 
Fifty years." 

The plant, consisting of twenty-three 
separate buildings, is located on Boston 
tidewater, and is connected by a single 
drawbridge with its wharfage which has 
a. deep water channel and a frontage 
of 750 feet on the north shore of Chel- 
sea Creek. The area covered by the 
Magee works reaches almost as far as 
the eye can sweep, embracing twelve 
acres in all, about the size of an ordi- 

One oe the Great Cupolas— Showing Pourers with Crucible Ladles 

down with shining plates, pewter and 
glasses, all sparkling with cleanliness 
and indicative of thrift and neatness, 
never fails of interest, even in these 
days of modern apartments, Such a 
picture was presented to me in the old 
Fairbanks house at Dedham, Mass., 
the ancestral home of Vice-President 
Fairbanks. Here is a hearth that com- 
bines the old and the new — the open 
fire-place and a brick oven, with a 
Magee range. 

New England cookery has long been 
considered the world's standard of 
culinary merit, and the housekeepers 
who read the New England Magazine, 

nary village farm in New England. On 
the wharf are piled vast supplies of pig 
iron, moulding-sand, sawed and dimen- 
sion lumber, coal, coke, limestone, and 
other materials used in the manufac- 
ture of modern ranges and heating ap- 
paratus. In fact, this foundry is sup- 
plied with material coming from ter- 
ritory as widely apart as Maine and the 
Mississippi, and the Great Lakes to the 
Gulf of Mexico. 

No one can appreciate the painstak- 
ing care necessary in the making of 
Magee cooking and heating apparatus 
until he has visited the factories where 
these goods are made. The individual 


parts of Magee Ranges and Heaters are 
made largely of cast-iron, which has 
proved to be the most indestructible 
and heat-radiating material. 

A large, fireproof building, located 
within 600 yards of the line ravaged 
by the great Chelsea fire of 1908, is the 
"pattern building," where all the Magee 
patterns, valued at hundreds of thou- 
sands of dollars, are stored. Here are 
preserved the original models neces- 
sary to make the castings. This build- 
ing is the fortress that must be pro- 
tected at all hazards, and the company's 
fire department had five streams play- 
ing on this structure during the Chelsea 
fire, realizing that the "Fire Proof," as 
it is called, must be saved if nothing 
else. The entire plant, however, was 

nor too hard; too slow to take heat or 
too quick to soften under it. 

The Magee Furnace Company be- 
lieves in thorough mutuality with its 
trade, and in cultivating the closest 
acquaintance with their representatives 
everywhere. In the Boston office are 
reception rooms where dealers from all 
parts of the country are welcome to 
make their headquarters during their 
stay in Boston. In these reception 
rooms are hung photographs of public 
buildings, libraries, churches, and 
homes, situated from Maine to Cali- 
fornia, that have been perfectly 
equipped with Magee cooking and 
heating apparatus. There are also 
pictures of out-door signs painted 
in many languages; but the one 

A Glimpse oe the Counting Room Through a Vista of Modern Heaters 

providentially preserved, and hundreds 
of workmen were able to immediately 
resume employment. 

The same quality of iron is used in 
the low-price Magee products as in the 
more costly, for there is but one stan- 
dard of quality in their manufacture. 
A perfect stove can be made from no 
one particular kind of iron ; a mixture 
or blending of cast metal made from 
various ores is necessary to secure a 
perfect casting and a durable product. 
Cast iron varies in its proportions of 
silicon, sulphur, manganese and phos- 
phorus coming from the different iron 
mines, and the proper blend is a matter 
of the first importance at the Magee 
foundry. It must neither be too soft 

word which all people alike have come 
to understand is one of five letters — 
"Magee" — embossed upon every prod- 
uct of the largest manufacturers of 
heating and cooking apparatus under 
one name in the United States ; and the 
distribution covers all parts of this 
country, and abroad to some extent. 

Upward of thirty gold medals and 
awards have been given the Magee 
products, beginning with the Centen- 
nial in 1876, at which the historical 
"Signing of the Declaration of Inde- 
pendence" was cast in iron and given 
out as souvenirs. The signatures 
and reading matter of the Decla- 
ration was marvelously clear and dis- 


V 1 * c - 

Photograph! by Langill, Hanover. N. H 

i ■ : -\*"^'c<?--. < 

Photograph by Langill, Hanover, N. H. 

Photograph by Langlll, Hanover, N. H 

Gathering the sap 

*i. ^aSP? 

Photograph by Langill, Hanover, N. H. 

The sap house 

'J ^ +~x 

Photograph by Langill, Hanover, N. H. 

The king oe the Mapi,e orchard 

Photograph by Langill, Hanover, N. H 

Making the rounds 

From a photograph hy Rockwood 

Wiluam Howard Ta*t 

New England Magazine 

Vol. XLII. APRIL, 1910 Number 2 

President Taft and Republican 
Party Promises 


THE United States, we are told, 
is suffering* from an orientalized 
administration, and they are 
quite worried about it — on the other 
side of the ocean ! 

The discovery was made by some 
under-fed European journalist, who, in 
his wild scramble for copy, remember- 
ing that Mr. Taft was once an admin- 
istrator in the Philippine Islands, 
evolved the important thought that an 
era of orientalism has fallen on several 
Western nations, owing to the contact 
of their rulers with Eastern civilization, 
and of these countries the United States 
is at present the worst sufferer. 

London journalists gravely recall 
that England has undergone the same 
experience under certain Indian- 
trained prime ministers, and now rec- 
ognize the symptoms in the present 

merican administration ! 

That, to be sure, is the least of our 

orries. But that the big, honest Ohio 
itizen who is now our President 
hould have developed the ideas and 

ethods of an Oriental potentate is no 

ore absurd an idea than many expres- 
sions concerning his administration 
llthat arise from circles which should be 
petter informed. 

I It would seem to be time to reflect 
for a moment and make for ourselves a 
pore sober estimate, both of the actual 

work to date and of what may be ex- 
pected of the present administration. 

In the first place, let us be careful 
not to underestimate the force of cur- 
rent criticism or the reasons for it. 

The tariff bill is felt by a large part 
of the country to have been a failure on 
the part of the Republican party to re- 
deem its platform and pre-election 
promises, and the activity of the Presi- 
dent in seeking to reconcile the disaf- 
fected sections to the new law has led 
them to identify the measure as it 
stands with his ideals, and to place 
upon him personally the burden of re- 
sponsibility for all its shortcomings. 

And this responsibility the President 
has in no way sought to shift to other 

He has frankly assumed responsibil- 
ity for the measure and attempted to 
defend it from its critics, who have 
forthwith become his critics. 

Whether or not this stand of his is 
"good politics," it is typical of the 
courage, not to say the chivalry, of the 

The tariff struggle, in conjunction 
with the efforts to reorganize the 
House, and, to some degree, the Sen- 
ate, has left the Republican party on 
the verge of permanent factional dis- 

No shifting of responsibility by the 



President could fail to place it in such a 
way as to greatly intensify the belliger- 
ency of these warring elements. His ad- 
ministration finds itself face to face with 
the possibility of three years of helpless- 
ness because of a disrupted party. With 
an honest zeal and heroic faithfulness 
to his friends, the President quietly as- 
sumes the responsibility for and per- 
sonally undertakes the defence of the 

It is his sincere belief that the new 
law is better than the old one — and it 
is yet too soon to say that it is not. 

Notwithstanding his evident sincer- 
ity in this faith, the country appears 
all too soon to have forgotten that the 
President labored night and day to se- 
cure a bill that would to any degree re- 
deem the pledges made by his party, 
and to the faith in which, partially at 
least, his election was due. 

Such a struggle between honesty and 
the interests has never before been 
waged on the floors of Congress. What- 
ever there is of good in the bill is due 
to his efforts ; whatever there may be 
of fault in it is there in spite of his 
struggles. He toiled like a giant to re- 
deem his pledges, or the pledges of his 
party, and give to the country a bona- 
fide tariff reduction. He did not toil in- 
effectually. Something was accom- 
plished — perhaps much. To say that 
some one else could have accomplished 
ore under the same circumstances is 
not based on any rational ground of 
ast performance. 

In addition to the passing of a law 
hich it is by no means proven is not 
good law — at least, an improvement — 
e secured the establishment of a board 
r commission whose duty it shall .be 
o remove the whole subject of tariff 
rom the field of political jobbery and 
lace it on a scientific basis. There is 
o reason whatever to say in advance 
hat this commission will not be fruit- 
ul of great results. 

Mr. Taft was elected as a successor 
o Theodore Roosevelt, and it was gen- 
ially understood that he would "carry 
>n the Rooseveltian policies." 

For seven years the country had 
)een sitting under an unprecedented 

era of presidential pulpiteering. The 
people were aroused to a state border- 
ing on hysteria over all manner of cor- 
porate abuse and political corruption. 
But had anything been done to seri- 
ously alter the conditions? Had there 
been anything but words? 

The passing of a tariff law, in spite 
of the increasing insistence of the peo- 
ple, was ingeniously — a little too in- 
geniously — postponed until after the 

With the one exception of a law to 
increase the responsibility of employ- 
ers for injury to employees — a minor 
detail — no great legislation had been 
accomplished in the furtherance of the 
"policies" advocated. The declaiming 
had all been done; the work was all 
left to be done. 

It was left for the new administra- 
tion to pass the required tariff law and 
to accomplish results ; in other words, 
to practice what had been so effectively 

That the practicing has not been 
quite so easy as the preaching should 
not surprise any one. 

Mr. Taft took hold, with immense en- 
thusiasm, of the problem of securing 
such new legislation as seemed neces- 
sary for the actual furtherance of any 
of these "policies." It is his urging of 
these measures a little more directly, 
or rather a little more openly and 
frankly, than was usual, which is char- 
acterized as "orientalism !" 

No President has shown greater rev- 
erence for the constitution than Mr. 
Taft. He has merely done frankly and 
openly what others have done secretly 
to influence legislation. 

Pie has urged on Congress seven 
measures, all of which are among 
the snags, and none of which seem 
likely to pass without serious modifi- 

These measures are the income tax 
amendment, the postal savings bank 
bill, the federal incorporation bill, the 
statehood bill, the Alaska bill, the anti- 
injunction bill and amendments to the 
railroad rate laws. 

Each of these, it will be seen, is an 
effort to actually accomplish some- 



thing along the lines of previous decla- 
mation. That they should have struck 
difficulties, and struck them hard, is an 
evidence that they have a business end 
that is feared by the powers that be. 

That they are ideally constructed 
just as submitted is scarcely to be ex- 
pected. Congress is supposed to be 
the law-making body of our govern- 
ment, and its machinery is supposed to 
be effective for whipping proposed leg- 
islation into shape. 

It is more than doubtful if an equal 
amount of important legislation was 
ever before Congress at one time. That 
all of these bills should become laws is 
too much to expect. That they should 
become laws without modification is 
hardly to be desired. Their present 
status is harmless enough, and if they 
can be pulled out of limbo one by one 
and so formulated as to have their ob- 
jectionable features eliminated, a great 
deal will have been accomplished in the 
right diretcion — accomplished, mind you; 
not simply preached. The fact that 
these measures have not all been rail- 
roaded through into laws is not a fair 
ground for criticism. 

No single incident has so predis- 
posed the public to a critical attitude 
toward the Taft administration as the 
Pinchot-Ballinger controversy. To those 
already hostile in feeling on account of 
the tariff law the President's apparent 
defence of Mr. Ballinger appeared to 
be another indication of administrative 
subservience to corporation influence. 

The controversy has been a most un- 
fortunate one, and Mr. Pinchot cannot 
be justified for throwing it on the ad- 
ministration at the time and in the 
manner which he did. His haste was, 
to say the least, unseemly. The high 
personal integrity of Mr. Taft was a 
sufficient guarantee that any serious de- 
partmental irregularity would receive 
proper attention. The plea that imme- 
diate action was necessary, that delay 
would result in irrevocably detrimental 
action, was a very lame one. No action 
of the kind involved could possibly be 
irrevocable. If fraudulent conveyance 
of land or granting rights or privileges 
could be shown at any time, the grants 

or conveyances could very easily be 
withdrawn by proper legal action. 

The manner of the attack on Mr. Bal- 
linger was such as to arouse the Presi- 
dent's keen sense of fairness. From his 
college days this has been one of his 
most conspicuous and lovable traits. 
To one acquainted with him, no other 
action than that which he took would 
have seemed possible, and no sensible 
person would desire in the presidential 
chair a type of man to whom any other 
action would have seemed possible. 

Realizing that his administration was 
under fire, Mr. Taft, on Lincoln day, 
in New York City, made a speech, the 
absolute sincerity and open-minded- 
ness of which must look for a counter- 
part in such great documents as Lin- 
coln's first inaugural address and plea 
for national peace. Peace at that mo- 
ment was not best, but Lincoln would 
not have been the great man that he 
was had he urged it a whit less ear- 
nestly and devoutly. 

It is not from a conflict of arms or 
from sectional strife like that of 1861 
that Mr. Taft would save us, but from 
a condition of faction in the ranks of 
the ruling party, which, if it is not 
healed, will result in legislative chaos 
for the next three years, and nobody 
knows what after that. 

It is quite possible that the fighting 
out to the finish of the controversies 
now disrupting the party is more to be 
desired than peace. But whether this 
is so or not, the seeking of peace first 
is unquestionably the President's duty, 
and his Lincoln-day speech was in 
every way a broad and noble utterance. 

The President is not responsible for 
all the sins of his party. He cannot be 
held responsible for the derelictions of 
a Congress which he did not neglect 
and can only control through the 
weight of argument and influence. He 
can only be held responsible for the 
faults of his own appointed subordi- 
nates in so far as it can be shown that 
due care was not taken in their ap- 
pointment, or gross and repeated in- 
competence or dishonesty remains un- 

Asa loyal man, as the head of a loyal 



body of executive subordinates, it is his versies, the dignity of the nation will be 

manifest duty to stand firmly in their de- upheld and the country saved from any 

fence until wrong-doing can be proven, pitiful spectacle of spitefulness and lit- 

All in all, the conduct of Mr. Taft as tleness. 

a President during one of the most try- Whatever disappointment may be 

ing years that has faced any adminis- felt in the tariff law, or the dragging of 

tration has been such as to give to the other legislative action, and whatever 

country a very deep impression of his may be the judgment of any individual 

greatness of soul, intellectual breadth as to the merits of the Ballinger con- 

and grasp, firmness and courage. troversy,it should be frankly and cheer- 

With such a chief executive, if there fully admitted, on the merits of the case, 

have been mistakes, they will be cor- that Mr. Taft has well earned the con- 

rected, and if there are to be contro- fidence of the country. 

"MO one has a motive as strong as the Administra- 
tion in power to cultivate and strengthen business 
confidence and business prosperity. But it does rest 
with the National Government to enforce the law, and 
if the enforcement of the law is not consistent with 
the present methods of carrying on business, then it does 
not speak well for the present methods of conducting 
business, and they must be changed to conform to 
the law. There was no promise on the part of the 
Republican party to change the anti-trust law except 
to strengthen it, or to authorize monopoly and a sup- 
pression of competition and the control of prices, and 
those who look forward to such a change cannot now 
visit the responsibility for their mistake on innocent 
persons. Of course the Government at Washington 
can be counted on to enforce the law in the way best 
calculated to prevent a destruction of public confidence 
in business, but that it must enforce the law goes 
without saying." 

Extract from President Taffs Lincoln Day Address. 


Williams College 



that period of American his- 
tory when the loyal citizens of 
~~is Majesty's colonies in New 
England were proving their soon-to-be- 
shaken allegiance to the British crown 
by gallantly repelling theinvasionpf the 
French, Colonel Ephriam Williams of 
the Massachusetts Militia, bethinking 
himself of the uncertain tenure on 
which human life is held in such troub- 
lous times made, while his forces were 
encamped at Albany, his last will and 
testament; and further realizing that 
patriotism consists quite as much in 
educating the youth of our country to 
good citizenship as in combatting its 
enemies, he incorporated a provision by 
which certain moneys and lands should 
be devoted to the establishment of a 
free school, "within five years after an 
established peace . . . in a town- 
ship west of Fort Massachusetts, com- 
monly known as the West Township, 
forever, provided, the said township 
shall fall within the jurisdiction of the 
Province of Massachusetts Bay.'.' 

Having thus settled his worldly 
affairs and proved his patriotism, in 
one way, he proved it in a second, when 
shortly afterward he fell at the head of 
his forces in the "Bloody Morning 
Scout" preceding the Battle of Lake 
George, September 8, ' 1755. 

Williams knew the country well 
which he had chosen as a site for his 
school, having been commander, and, 
indeed, builder, of Fort Massachusetts, 
which was situated near by, and it is 
not improbable that the old Grecian 
idea of surrounding a woman as the 
time of motherhood approached with 
beautiful things, that she might bring 
forth a child possessed of beautiful 
qualities, might have influenced him. 
Certain it is that the aesthetic sur- 

roundings of Williamstown should 
profoundly impress a maturing mind. 

Williamstown is a village of spread- 
ing elms and colonial houses set upon a 
hill in the middle of a basin whose rim 
is a chain of still higher hills, piled 
tier upon tier, and tinted in all the 
gradations of color, from the rich green 
of the nearer landscape to blue, and 
from blue to hazy purple, until one can 
hardly distinguish cloud from moun- 
tains, and over all, the soft sky and 
fleecy clouds casting their shifting 
shadows on the nearer slopes. 

It is a country of wonderful calm. 
It is the country Bryant knew when he 
wrote Thanatopsis. Here are: 

The hills, rock ribbed and ancient as 

the sun; 
The vales stretching in pensive quiet 

were between: 
Rivers that move in majesty, and the 

Brooks that make the meadows green." 

He who has been here, be it for ever 
so short a time, has tasted the lotus, 
and the craving to return can never 
be satiated. 

"An established peace" was a long 
time in coming, for it was not until 
1785 that the Free School was finally 
established. The "West Township," or 
West Hoosic, as it is frequently called 
in old records, had, in the meantime, 
become Williamstown, and the "Prov- 
ince of Massachusetts Bay" was the 
Commonwealth of Massachusetts. 

The legislature did not, as it did in 
many similar cases at the time, offer 
the school any financial encouragement, 
rather calling particular attention to 
the provision in the will of the school's 
benefactor, that in case the donations 
"should afford an interest more than 




President Henry A. Gareiei/d 

sufficient for the support and mainte- 
nance of the School in Williamstown, 
the surplusage should be improved to 
the use of a school in the East Town- 
ship, now called Adams." 

As corporations, like individuals, are 
seldom troubled with a "surplusage" of 
wealth, it is needless to say that the 
school in Adams was never founded. 
At the first meeting of the trustees in 
1785 a resolution was passed that "it 
is the sense of the corporation that the 
Free School in Williamstown be open 
and free for the use and benefit of the 

inhabitants of that town and the free 
citizens of the American States," an 
expression, in passing, which serves to 
show the gravity and lack of the sense 
of. humor in that august body — and 
further, that "it will best coincide with 
the liberal view of the donor and the 
intention of the legislature to admit no 
student to the Free School . 
not having been taught to read Eng- 
lish well." 

The word "citizen" in the first reso- 
lution seems to imply that the aim of 
the school was the education of white 



men exclusively and not for the teach- 
ing of Indians as among many institu- 
tions of learning founded at that time ; 
the second, at that time, and consider- 
ing the school's location, apparently 
points toward collegiate ambitions. 

However, in spite of the ambitious 
entrance requirements, the Free School 
throve, for three years later we find 
the trustees petitioning the legislature 
"for the grant of a lottery to raise the 
sum of twelve hundred pounds" for 
the erection of a building in which to 
conduct the school. The lottery 
scheme being highly popular at that 
time as a means of raising funds for 
civic and collegiate purposes, the legis- 
lature granted the petition in the fol- 
lowing spring. As a result West 
College was built in 1790. It still 
stands in its original position on a 
hill overlooking the rest of the college, 
a square, box-like structure with * a 
much too large cupola, but beloved for 
its associations. 

In 1792 a petition setting forth the 

"several circumstances attending the 
situation of the Free School . 
peculiarly favorable to a seminary of 
a more public and important nature" 
was presented to the legislature, which 
in 1793 granted the trustees a charter, 
directing that "there be erected and 
established in the town of Williams- 
town, in the county of Berkshire, a 
college, for the purpose of educating 
youth, to be called and known by the 
name of Williams College." 

It is not uninteresting to note as an 
example of local jealousy, and an in- 
stance of the strong hold which the 
doctrine of state sovereignty had upon 
the people at that time, that one of the 
reasons cited as an argument in 
favor of the establishment of a college 
at Williamstown was that Dartmouth 
and Yale, more conveniently situated to 
the people of Western Massachusetts 
than was Harvard, were drawing many 
out of the state for that reason. 
Whether or no this was the clinching 
argument with the Solons of this cod- 



fish-fostered commonwealth, the char- 
ter, as has been said, was granted. 

During the first years of the college's 
life, its growth was somewhat slow. 
In 1798 East College was built, but 
otherwise there were few improve- 
ments either in equipment or curricu- 
lum. William Cullen Bryant, writing 
to a friend in 1859 describes the insti- 
tution in his day (1810) as follows: 

"The college buildings consisted of 
two large, plain, brick structures, called 
East and West College, and the college 

W* f / 

going out, I found one of these build- 1| 
ings in a blaze, and the students danc- 1 
ing and shouting around it. . . . 

"When the number of teachers was j! 
so small (there were four in the faculty, 
consisting of the president, one pro- 
fessor, and two tutors) it could hardly 
be expected that the course of studies 
should be very extensive or complete, j 
The standard of scholarship at Wil-' 
Hams College, at that time, was so far 
below what it now is that I think many | 
graduates in those days would be no 

Griffin hau, 

grounds consisted of an open green be- 
tween the two, and surrounding both. 
From one college to the other you 
passed by a straight avenue of Lom- 
bardy poplars, which formed the sole 
embellishment of the grounds. There 
was a smaller building or two of wood, 
forming the only dependencies of the 
main edifices, and every two or three 
years the students made a bonfire of 
one of these. I remember being startled 
one night by the alarm of fire, and 

more than prepared for admission aSj 
freshmen now. There were some, how-' 
ever, who found to9 much exacted from 
their diligence, and left my class on] 
that account." 

Yet those days of struggle were noO 
without their fruit. For, while oui 
pious forbears were urging the be 
nighted aborigines along the straight 
and narrow — very narrow — path oJ 
Christian rectitude, and not infre- 
quently impressing upon them a vivic 




example of the church militant in ac- 
tion by hustling their unprepared souls 
into the church triumphant with their 
trusty flintlocks, a little band of Wil- 
liams students sighed for other worlds 
to conquer and founded the first for- 
eign missionary society in America. 
The founding is one of the picturesque 
legends of the college. 

One sultry Sunday afternoon in 1806 
a party of students went out to a pine 
grove on the border of the village to 
hold a prayer meeting, but as they 
prayed a thunder storm came up so 
suddenly that they had no time to re- 
turn to their rooms but sought shelter 
under a near-by haystack. While they 
were waiting for the shower to pass, 
the conversation turned upon the con- 
version of the heathen and one of the 
number suggested the need of mis- 
sionaries in Asia. The suggestion met 
with instant favor and before the storm 
was over the society was formed. A 
monument now marks the spot where 
the haystack stood, and is known as the 
"Haystack Prayermeeting" monument. 

It is not strange that the religious 
zeal should have been strong in these 

The Thompson chapee 

Haystack prayermeeting monument 

men. There is an awful grandeur 
about the towering hills that makes 
man feel his littleness and their calm 
serenity shows him his helplessness. 

"The lofty domes and pinnacles of 
the hills point him to God, and the long- 
drawn aisles of the woodland lead his 
thoughts toward heaven." In this 
"spot where the Last Judgment might 
be held, with the universe assembled 
on the slopes of the encircling hills," 
may he fittingly cry: "What is man 
that Thou art mindful of him?" 

The great impetus to the growth of 
Williams College was given by Mark 
Hopkins, who became its president in 
1836. His zealous efforts for the im- 
provement of the college curriculum, 
and his great executive ability place 
him in the foremost rank of the educa- 
tors of his day. During the thirty- 
six years of his administration, six 
buildings were completed, among them 
the Hopkins' Observatory, the first 
public observatory to be erected in 
America; the quaint, octagonal Li- 
brary, and College Hall. 



The old East College was burned in 
1841, and rebuilt the following year. 

Mark Hopkins was, in truth, the 
second founder of Williams College. 
"The high rank of Williams as a small 
college," says an eminent writer, "is 
in large part due to the work and in- 
fluence of Mark Hopkins." Himself 
educated at Williams, he knew the 
needs of the college; a scholar himself, 
he understood and sympathized with 
those who desired a wider and deeper 
range of study and did much to develop 

liamstown. . . . The town is built 
on a boldly undulating plateau of lime- 
stone, which, rising to a considerable 
height from the lower ground, affords 
magnificent views of the encircling 
hills, whose forest-covered crests tower 
to heights of three to four thousand 
feet. The valley is wholly settled by 
farmers ; there is not a manufactory 
and hardly a retail shop in the village, 
whose pretty, white bungalows rise 
from park-like and elm-shaded stret- 
ches of turf, while the undulating main 

Kappa Ai,pha house 

the individual student; an able organ- 
izer, he revived a strong and worthy 
pride of the college among the students, 
and checked the practice of transferring 
to other colleges, which had formerly 
been so common. 

It was during this administration 
that a noble English traveler de- 
scribed the town thus : 

"A charming stage ride of four miles, 
following the Hoosac River past the 
foot of Greylock, brought me to Wil- 

street is bordered at intervals by the 
halls, chapel, museum and library of 
Williams College. The college build- 
ings are for the most part plain and 
without any academic air, but despite 
of a chapel, like the conventicle of 
an English country town, a very 
unpretentious library, and a number of 
barrack-like 'halls' where the men 
live, its romantic situation, park-en- 
folded houses, and peaceful atmosphere 
place Williamstown easily ahead of 



every other New England village for 
beauty." . . 

"The Sabbath evening was still and 
peaceful as I sat on the veranda of the 
hotel, looking, by turns, up the wooded 
summits of East Mountain, the Dome, 
and Greylock, already tinged with sun- 
set pink, around upon the white, lawn- 
bordered homes of farmers and pro- 
fessors, or down the dusty Hoosac 
valley, where a silver thread of water 
wound about, and was finally lost sight 

some pleasant glimpses of American 
youth, and by the bright anticipation 
for its manhood to which these 
glimpses give rise." 

How different is this from the col- 
lege of 1810 with its two buildings and 
straggling green. 

From the beginning of the adminis- 
tration of Mark Hopkins, the rise of 
Williams College has been steady, yet 
somewhat checked by a certain con- 
servativeness, not found in other col- 

Phi Dei/ta Theta fraternity house 

of in the folds of Taconic's forest robe. 
On the porch of a fraternity lodge, just 
opposite, a group of students, pictur- 
esquely disposed, were singing the 
evening hymn in harmony, while above 
the great, gray hills a rising moon 
hung her silver shield against the sun- 
set's crimson. Thus the May night 
fell lightly as sleep upon a scene of 
singular beauty and purity, closing a 
day made delightful to me by rest 
from labor and labor questions, by 

leges. There seems to be a strong 
desire that it may retain its position 
as a small and somewhat exclusive 
college rather than that the growth 
should be rapid and the quality of its 
men sacrificed. Williams is eminently 
a rich man's college; it is, too, the col- 
lege of the college man's son. It is 
estimated that over eighty per cent, 
of the students at the present time are 
the sons of college graduates. 

If the worthy gentlemen of the first 



Delta Kappa Kpsi^on house 

Board of Trustees of the Free School 
at Williamstown, who so deplored the 
passage of Massachusetts gold into the 
coffers of colleges outside the sacred 
confines of the commonwealth, if, we 
say, these gentlemen had been gifted 
with vindictive temperaments and the 
power of peering into the future how 
they would have rejoiced in the knowl- 
edge of their revenge when they be- 
came aware that not only were seven 
and twenty states, to say nothing of 
Turkey and Persia, contributing their 
toll to this portal of the highroad of 
learning, but that the boys of Massa- 
chusetts were, in numbers, but a poor 
second to the sons of the haughty 
patroons of New York. Of the five 
hundred and thirty-seven students 
now enrolled at Williams, two hun- 
dred and two are from the Empire 
State; Massachusetts is represented by 
one hundred and ten; New Jersey 
sends fifty-two, and Illinois takes 
fourth place with thirty-seven. In 
order follow Ohio, Minnesota, Con- 

necticut, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, 
Wisconsin, Maine, Washington, Indi- 
ana, Vermont, Colorado, District of 
Columbia, Michigan, California, Mis- 
souri, Oregon, Maryland, Nebraska, 
New Hampshire, North Carolina, 
Texas, Utah, Wyoming, Persia and 

As one runs over this list, it is seen 
that Williams is not a local institution, 
but a college of national importance, 
drawing its students from the entire 
Union. Why- do these men come — 
many of them from under the very 
shadows of colleges and state universi- 
ties? The reply is, the traditions of 
Williams have attracted them, the 
manliness of its students, the spirit of 
its alumni, the deeds of its sons. In 
all these things Williams is rich, 
though it is a small college. Its name 
may not be forgotten. 

Considerable has already been said 
about the natural beauty of Williams- 
town, yet a few words are necessary re- 
garding the college buildings which 



play so prominent a part in the ap- 
pearance of the village. 

Without doubt, the most striking 

building in Williamstown, and the one 

which would attract the stranger's in- 

I terest quickest, is the Thompson 

Memorial Chapel. Situated upon a 

rolling knoll and opposite the old 

! chapel "like the conventicle of an Eng- 

I lish country town," its lofty tower 

overtops the elms and dominates the 

I town. The corner-stone of this edifice 

j was laid in 1903 by Dr. Garfield, and 

l| the building completed about two 

years later. 

This is, without doubt, one of the 
most beautiful college houses of wor- 
ship in the country. The chapel is 
built in pure Gothic style, of light gray 
granite, which, against the foliage of 
i the trees, give it a singularly light and 
fairy-like aspect. It is built in the 
usual cruciform plan of church archi- 
tecture, with a semi-circular apse, 
shallow transepts and a long nave. 
The roof is very high as compared 
with the width of the edifice, and the 
walls lightly buttressed. The tower 
itself, with its great arched bell-win- 
dows and battlemented summit, is a 
thing of the utmost beauty. The in- 
terior is even more beautiful than the 
outside. One should see it for the 

first time, perhaps, at dusk, when the 
glowing windows cast their delicate 
colors over the dark oaken benches 
and upon the marble floor. And if, 
perchance, the velvet-toned organ is 
rolling its rich purple melody among 
the clustered pillars, its mellow notes 
soaring into the dim and lofty arches, 
it requires no great stretch of imagina- 
tion to picture a procession of shadowy, 
black-robed monks pacing the dusky 
aisles of this old-world chapel. 

The interior finish of the chapel is 
of gray limestone and the floor of 
Tennessee marble. All the woodwork 
is of dark oak, carved in imitation of 
early Gothic designs. It is seldom that 
an idea is carried to such perfection of 
detail as here, where even the ward- 
robes in the President's dressing-room 
are finished in the same pattern and 
with the same care as the pulpit. 

Not the least notable feature about 
the chapel is the windows. These, 
with the Hopkins and Garfield memori- 
al windows, are the work of John Hard- 
man and Company, Birmingham, Eng- 
land. They are painted glass. Some 
idea of their delicate patterning may 
be gained from the photograph here 
shown, but it can, of course, give noth- 
ing of their richness and harmony of 
color. The Hopkins window, which 

Wii/ljamstown from Stone hiu. 




Lounging room — commons 

has already been mentioned, is in the 
south wall of the east transept and of 
German workmanship. It is in memory 
of Professor Albert Hopkins, brother 
of President Mark Hopkins. The 
Garfield window, by La Farge, in the 
west transept is in memory of the 
martyred President, James Abram 
Garfield, of the class of 1856, father of 
the present head of the college. This 
window, unlike the rest, is of stained 
glass and "in parts can justly hold its 
own in comparison with the best 
mediaeval windows for brilliance of 
color and harmonious balance of tones." 

Both these windows were taken from 
the old chapel. 

Almost immediately opposite the 
chapel are Lasell Gymnasium and 
Morgan Hall, a dormitory, both built 
of gray limestone in the style of the 
Italian Renaissance; the older dormi- 
tories are of yellow brick and some of 
the most recent have been modelled 
after them. All in all, the college 
architecture is of a pretty heterogene- 

ous sort, comprising everything from 
the fine colonial proportions of Griffin 
Hall to the Gothic of Thompson Chapel 
and the nondescript variety peculiar to 
the dark ages in American architecture, 
namely, the eighth decade of the last 
century, as shown in Hopkins Hall. 
Yet all these varied types are under a 
charm which does not make them, in- 
congruous as they often are, seem out 
of place. One thing they do have in 
common is a sort of academic restful- 
ness and quiet which well accords with 
that calm country. 

Six years ago a central heating 
plant was erected, from which all 
rooms in the college buildings are sup- 
plied with heat. This, of course, very 
materially lessens the danger from fire. 
It is to be hoped that an electric light- 
ing equipment will soon be established 
in connection with the heating plant 

In 1896 the "honor system" of con- 
ducting examinations was introduced. 
That it has been successful, its present 
use amply attests. The method of 




judgment of suspected fraud is, it 
seems, unique with Williams. "All 
:ases of suspected fraud are dealt with 
by a committee of ten students, in- 
:luding representatives from each 
:lass, who have the power to decide on 
the question of guilt and recommend to 
the Faculty the penalty of dismissal 
from college in the case of a Senior, 
[unior, or Sophomore, and of suspen- 
sion in the case of a Freshman." It 
s gratifying to know that the com- 
mittee is seldom obliged to meet. 

In athletics the Williams man has 
ilways been recognized as a hard 
)layer, but a gentle, manly one. It is 
;his spirit that has made the teams so 
successful and so popular. 

In basketball, Williams has long 
:>een putting out one of the strongest 
earns in the East, and her football 
.nd baseball teams are of such cali- 
per that their schedules never lack 
james with the big colleges. The ex- 
:ellent opportunities for walking and 
nountaineering which the Berkshires 
)ffer, furnish the means of exercise for 
;hose who do not seek the laurels of 
ame. Thanks to this outdoor life, there 
s little serious illness at Williams. 

As to the social side of Williams 
ife, the college seems to be just the 
•ight distance from North Adams and 

Pittsfield to offer the students all the 
pleasures of a larger place without 
its inconvenience. The fraternities are 
a very powerful social factor, also. 
Most of them own their own chapter 
houses which are fitted with all the 
conveniences of a luxurious city club. 
Several of them have there own din- 
ing rooms where meals are served 
to members. Within the last year 
the Commons has also been opened, 
where meals are provided for one 
hundred and ten men. Both table 
d' hote and a la carte meals are served, 
the prices being kept at a minimum. 
With the Commons is conducted a 
public lounging room, where fraternity 
and not-fraternity men can come to- 
gether and prevent the rise of clannish- 
ness. It is a wise precaution for there 
is nothing more disastrous to a col- 
lege than narrowness. 

The work of Dr. Garfield has but 
begun; never had the world more new 
problems coming before it every day. 
Never had the executive of a college 
a more difficult task than now pre- 
sents itself to each college president. 
The school must not only keep abreast 
of the times but advance a little way 
before them. The knowledge of to- 
day is the ridicule of to-morrow. We 
must not look back. 

Weston athletic eiei,d 

The Persian Rug 


WE were seated about a little 
table in a Chinese restaurant 
on Harrison avenue, and 
rather expecting a story from the old 
ex-attache in whose honor we were 
holding our little celebration. 

The celestial who had laid our ser- 
vice of delicate lacquer ware now stood 
at a respectful distance, like an image 
carved in mutton tallow. 

"You preachers are a strange lot," 
began the old raconteur. "You don't 
know anything about, and, what is 
more, you don't care a rag for some of 
the most interesting things in your 
own religion." 

The clerical member of our party 
lifted his brows inquiringly and the 
consul continued : 

"If I was president of a theological 
seminary " 

"Monstrous !" ejaculated the cleric, 
but the other ignored him. 

"As I was saying, if I was foreman 
of a preacher factory, I would import 
a good-sized Oriental village and let 
the students learn things." 

For some moments his eye rested in 
silence on a great carved dragon that 
adorned the wall, and his mood grew 
more serious. 

"I never see one of those things 
without a shudder," he said, simply. 
"They stand for an element in the act- 
ual experience of those people. I have 
never told you, I am sure, of the last 
days of Alice Leighton and the manner 
of her death. I have never felt that I 
could. You all remember Alice, I sup- 

Involuntarily we laid aside our ci- 
gars, as if the mention of her name had 
brought her in person before us. We 
recalled the brilliant wedding, the 
leave-taking of the youthful couple for 

Leighton's foreign appointment, anc 
that sad, slow funeral a short si> 
months later. 

"Mind you, fellows, I don't under- 
take to explain any of the things that ) 
am going to tell you ; and if at an>] 
point of my story, which, I warn yot| 
beforehand, is a queer one, your curi-| 
osity begins to get the better of you! 
just remember — it was Alice." 

A more effectual appeal for an unin| 
terrupted hearing no man could hav([ 
made ; at least to us, upon whom thf] 
beautiful girl had made that lasting! 
impression which is as a rich legacy 
bequeathed by some rarely-endowec 

"The particulars are as fresh in my 
mind as if it had happened yesterday! 
and I am going to tell it just as I rel 
ported it at the time to the chief of m)j 
department; as it is, I suppose, storecj 
away to-day in what must be one o:; 
the strangest documents in the archives! 
of the State Department. 

"Suitable residence property was ai[ 
that time hardly to be found, even ir| 
the Chinese treaty ports, and I n 
very glad to be- so situated as to btj 
able to invite the young couple to m) 
own compound until they should find 
something habitable. 

"The Leightons, like most new ar! 
rivals, were at once seized with a vioi 
lent craze for all objects of Orienta; 
manufacture, and when they would ge , 
their heads together in a whispering 
fashion over some new purchase, ]| 
knew that its place had been assigne^ 
in the future nest. Leighton had mone)i 
and his coming was a godsend to th<| 
merchants of the place. 

"One day they came home intensel) 
enthusiastic over the discovery of ar 
antique rug whose history must hav< 



dated back fo the earliest incursions 
of the Tartar tribes. Nothing would 
do but that I must see it. And I am 
free to confess that it was a perfect 
mosaic of jewels, soft and brilliant. It 
was of what .is known as 'the tree of 
life' pattern, but far more intricate of 
detail than any of that design that I 
had ever seen. The price was fabulous, 
but as my unconcealed admiration had 
confirmed their determination to pur- 
chase it, so my good offices and greater 
knowledge of Oriental ways succeeded 
in bringing the merchant to reason. 

"Not until after the rug had been 
Isold and delivered did the old rascal 
jpresent himself at our house with 
jrather a remarkable yarn. The rug, he 
said, was the abode of a 'shie kwei' 
j (which is Chinese for demon, or evil 
spirit), and that ever since it had been 
in his house the spirit had greatly 
troubled his daughter. But as the rug 
was too valuable to be destroyed by 
one so poor as himself, he had not 
known what to do. Now we had pur- 
chased it, and he thought it right to tell 
us of these things, that we might either 
destroy the rug or sell it to some one 
jelse, if we so wished. When we ques- 
tioned him further he could only say 
that he supposed that the person who 
wove the rug had wrought his own life 
|into its warp and woof. 

"This notion seemed to us at the 
time rather a pretty one, and I am sure 
jthat the story added much to the pride 
of the new owners of the rug. When 
we asked as to the nature of his daugh- 
ter's affliction he so described it as to 
(give us the impression of a rather se- 
jvere case of epilepsy. W T hen he added 
jthat since the removal of the offending 
rug she was entirely recovered, we 
could not but wonder at the strength 
of a superstition which was able to pro- 
duce such persistent halucinary phe- 

I "At his leaving we were all a-buzz 
with excitement and gaiety. Alice in- 
sisted that the rug be brought out of 
storage and spread on the floor of my 
living-room. To this I was in nowise 
loath, as its beauty was of a most ex- 
traordinary character. 

»•* OUl 

"No sooner was it laid upon the floor 
than we were again lost in admiration, 
both of the separate colors and their 
blending as well as of its lustrous tex- 
ture. In a moment, like children, we 
were on our knees tracing the intricate 
patterns and commenting on their alle- 
gorical meanings. Alice, particularly, 
seemed full of such lore and fairly 
bubbled over with enthusiasm. 

"She insisted that the rug was the 
handiwork, not of man, but of a beau- 
tiful slave girl, whose sufferings at the 
hands of a brutal master was the story 
that was woven, thread by thread, into 
the pitiful laboriousness of its design; 
while, if it were possessed by an evil- 
demon, it could be no other than the 
soul of her tormentor, thus forever 
bound for the expiation of his sins. 

''Into this interpretation Alice en- 
tered with so much earnestness that we 
all burst into hearty laughter. 

"We had not moved from our kneel- 
ing posture on the rug, and no one had 
spoken since Alice's last word, when 
the door opened, apparently without 
cause, and immediately closed again — - 
not with a jar, as by the wind, but 
softly. We stared first at it and- then 
at one another, but without comment. 

"Scarcely had we pulled ourselves 
together a little from the shock of this 
occurrence, when, with a peculiar, 
sharp movement, the center table was 
shifted a few inches, and a costly vase 
which it bore fell to the floor with a 
loud crash and was shivered to atoms. 

"For some reason we never discussed 
these occurrences. I cannot but think 
that it would have been better if we 
had ; but I at least felt a most unaccount- 
able reluctance to face the facts, and I 
think that the others shared my feel- 

"Alice was the first to recover her 
self-possession, and soon had us all in 
the highest spirits with her unquench- 
able gaiety. 

"These incidents, however, proved to 
be but the beginning of a long series of 
happenings that for the next few weeks 
destroyed alike the order and the morale 
of our house. Fire broke out in the 
thatch of the roof so often and so un- 



accountably that we were compelled to 
keep buckets and ladders in continual 
readiness. Rattling, jarring and espe- 
cially knocking sounds continually dis- 
turbed our sleep. Footsteps became 
audible in the quiet, and once or twice 
we even heard sounds like a low, chuck- 
ling, most forbidding laughter. 

"More annoying, even, than these, 
we would discover foreign substances 
and even filth in our very food. And, 
indeed, in all the manifestations there 
was something not only impish, but un- 

"Of course, the servants talked, as 
servants will. We quickly discovered 
that our neighbors were accustomed to 
look upon the presence of such a fa- 
miliar spirit in our house as a family 
scandal. And we ourselves began to 
be conscious of a sense of degradation 
and shame, as if in some way both the 
house and ourselves were disgraced. It 
was not so much fear that possesesd us 
as a deep abhorrence of the disgusting 

"Alice all this while outdid herself in 
brilliancy. But, closely observing the 
girl, I was certain that she was acting 
under a suppressed, but intense, excite- 
ment, and I became greatly concerned 
for her. 

"I decided that things had gone alto- 
gether too far, and secretly resolved, 
upon the very first opportunity, to have 
the rug removed and placed in storage, 
only awaiting some rational pretence 
for such an action. 

"Before doing so, however, I deter- 
mined to make at least one effort to rid 
ourselves of the nightmare, obcession 
or whatever it was that possessed us, 
for I was unwilling to admit that it 
possessed the slightest foundation in 

' 'Alice,' I said, 'let us invite in the 
whole American colony and make a big 
entertainment — one that will shake the 
rafters and be the talk of the town for 
the rest of the season.' 

"I gave no reason, but secretly I felt 
that the diversion of interest, the plan- 
ning and preparation, the entertain- 
ment itself and the calling that would 
follow might change the tenor of our 

thoughts, and perhaps entirely remove 
the painful notion. 

"Alice visibly brightened and took 
up at once with the suggestion, and we 
entered with the utmost zest into the 
planning of a great party. 

"For the next few days we were as 
busy as possible, and throughout this 
bustle of preparation the manifesta- 
tions became less and less frequent, 
and finally, to my infinite relief, ceased 
altogether. Our table resumed its 
wonted gaiety, and even the stolid ser- 
vants stepped about with a newspright- 
liness. iVlice alone became somewhat 
depressed, which was a natural reac- 
tion from her overwrought state, and 
rather pleased both her husband and 
myself than caused us the slightest 

"Inside of twenty-four hours the in- 
cident began to appear like an absur- 
dity, and I was ready to introduce it 
into our conversation as a jest. To add 
to this mirthful feeling one of the old- 
est of our servants, an aged but very 
faithful Chinaman, retained the terror 
that had lately possessed ourselves, and 
we were able to see mirrored in his con- 
duct the utter absurdity of that which 
we ourselves had been doing. Hewould 
start and turn at the slightest noise, and 
pick up overturned objects gingerly 
and suspiciously, fumbling an amulet 
that he wore and muttering charms. It 
was impossible not to laugh at his lu- 
dicrous terror over the most ordinary 

"Once I inadvertently caught my toe 
in the edge of the rug, and, stumbling, 
fell forward, dislodging any amount of 
small belongings. 

" Wee Ling let out a most terrible 
shriek and fled from the house at top 
speed ; nor were we able to persuade 
him to return for many hours. 

"Early on the evening of the enter- 
tainment we all partook of a light sup- 
per together. Suddenly, while we were 
seated at the table, I noticed that Alice 
was seized with an uneasy feeling — an 
uncontrollable restlessness. 

"With a quick glance I called the at- 
tention of her husband to her peculiar 



" ' What is it, Alice ?' he inquired. But 
she only stared at him with eyes wild and 
half-devoid of recognition. Then she 
arose, pushing back her chair with the 
quickness of her motion, and held out 
her hands appealingly. In an instant 
we were both at her side. 

" 'What is it?' I cried, moved as never 
before by a sense of impending horror. 
She pushed us both back, at the same 
time swaying and staggering toward 
the door, until her husband gently re- 
strained her. 

" 'Alice!' he shouted. _ 'Stop!- Sit 
down! Where are you going? What is 
it? What can I do for you?' 

"Swaying feebly and clasping her 
hands to her head, she gasped in a dry, 
forced utterance : 

"'It!' We shuddered. I stepped to 
the sideboard for a glass of wine, but 
stopped as I heard her trying to speak 
again. Finally, slowly and with infinite 
effort she managed to articulate : 

" 'It is telling — me — to — do — what — 
I — will — not — do.' The words came 
with a tense, suffocating sound that 
was most distressing to hear. 

"Then I saw her lips move again in 
a curiously mechanical way, as though 
she were no longer in control of her- 
!self, but were a mere automaton moved 
by the exercise of mechanical force ; 
and the voice that came forth was not 
hers ! As yet we knew scarcely a word 
of the native tongue, but enough to 
know that the words spoken were no 
more Chinese than they were English, 
but a Semitic tongue. 

"All this while her countenance was 
(changing. While I stood transfixed 
(with horror she turned on her husband 
a look of indescribable repugnance that 
brought a cry of pain to his lips, for he 
most dearly loved her. A rigor seized her 
|limbs and she fell, panting, to the floor. 

"Rousing myself, I threw myself on 
my knees at her side. Assisting her 
husband, I chafed her wrists and he 
loosened her dress at the throat. Yet 
we could do but little. 

"Somehow we felt that the darling 
gprl was struggling for her very life 
with an antagonist against whom we 
were utterly powerless. Her limbs 

were motionless. It was not with bod- 
ily strength, but with all the might of 
her will, that she was fighting as if 
against some foul and horrible embrace. 

"Finding that we could expect no 
assistance from the panic-stricken ser- 
vants, we quickly carried the sufferer 
to a couch, while I went for wine or 
a glass of cordial — I scarcely know for 
what, for I had a stupefied feeling that 
nothing could be of the slightest avail. 

"When I re-entered the room I saw at a 
glance that the struggle was over. There 
was no mistaking the meaning of that 
marble stillness. In a transport of grief 
and rage I staggered forward to where 
her husband's figure crouched against 
the couch, his head buried in the folds 
of her dress. 

"As I did so there arose from her 
body, and particularly from her lips, 
a murky emanation — as it were, a visi- 
ble breath — that took to itself form 
and the semblance of a face — ruthless, 
evil, obscene. 

"With a cry I sprang toward it, but 
my hands, that would have strangled 
a giant, closed on emptiness. 

"Looking down at Alice, I saw with 
what of joy could be left that her 
features had regained their natural 
sweetness of expression, as if, through 
the veil of death, she was telling us 
that, whatever may have been the na- 
ture of that struggle and though at the 
price of her life, the evil spirit had been 
cast out, leaving her our unstained Alice. 

"My eye caught sight of the rug. 
Poor little slave girl of Persia, I 
thought ! How fearfully, after so many 
centuries, have your wrongs been 
avenged !" 

As we left the place (for no one felt 
like commenting on the consul's story) 
we could hear the shuffling of feet in 
the dim, unlighted halls, — that curious, 
muffled scrape of the Chinaman's foot- 
gear, — and it was not until we had left 
the district and its strange inhabitants 
far behind us that we looked from one 
to the other as if to ask if it had all 
been real. 

The old consul laughed bitterly. 

"They are queer," was all that he 
would say. 

The Apollo Club of Boston 


MOST clubs- or organizations 
are, to a cetrain extent, a sign 
of the times — blackboards, as 
it were, whereon a community chron- 
icles its demands, its smiles of approval 
or its discontent. Every little while 
Father Time chooses for them a new 
mask, and they must wear it at least 

They hold out their hands to the hoi 
polloi, — they themselves are of it, and, 
whether they will or no, they are a 
more or less variable function, — a de- 
rivative, as it were, of the breath of the 

In the case of musical organizations, 
which are, in a way, a power in the 
community, we may find several whose 
standards are high and of exacting or- 
der, whose achievements are annually 
excellent and worthy, and to whom an 
appreciative public always bows in re- 
spectful recognition. But when we at- 
tempt to subject them to analysis there 
is just a bit of disappointment and a 
tinge of the commonplace at finding 
them a composition of amalgamated 
atoms which must ever be fanned into 
life by a master baton. 

Their current of life would stop 
should the sparks cease to fly from the 
magic stick. 

I mean no disrespect when I say that 
on various occasions of most excellent 
performances of these hoi-polloi organ- 
izations of heterogeneous atoms, when 
I have seen a conductor struggling 
with one of these amalgamated masses, 
I have felt that there was a certain gro- 
tesqueness, an undignity, so to speak, 
about it all. Their efforts are usually 
extremely successful. However, it all 
seems not unlike the king in the role of 
gooseherd, with whip high in hand and 

himself out of breath, trying to driv I 
his flock into a certain compartment. , 

You may have already objected tj | 
my referring to these organizations a 
of the hoi polloi. You will argue tha 
having rigid requirements of time, ton 
and rhythm and other adequacies c 
high standard and attainment, they ar 
not to be decried. Even so, they ar 
to be much lauded. I am merely tryin| ' 
to draw a dividing line of difference b(j 
tween the organizations composed cj 
music-lovers, music-followers and mij 
sic-workers who are able to pass mm 
ter into membership, and those few 01 
ganizations which are of a more disj 
tinctive familia, and whose electorate 
presupposes time, tone and rhythm an 
is concerned with the spirit of art an 
the innateness of taste and refinemen! 
It is to this distinctive familia type thzj 
the Apollo Club of Boston belongs, an! 
it is this insistence upon the innatel; 
refined which engenders in an orgaii 
ization of the latter type salon-like po: \ 

If I were going to speak sweeping!! 
I should say, without fear, the three e: 
sences of American artistic reftnemei 
are the Apollo Club of Boston, tlj 
Kneisel Quartette and the Boston Syri 
phony Orchestra. The two latter u 
right of the quintessence of master) 1 
achievement; the Apollo Club of Bo| 
ton by virtue of its achievement and j 
distinctively Bostonian esprit de corps a 
well. The spirit of this organizaticj 
is unmatched. One is conscious in 
stantly that its audience is entirely t\ 
rapport with itself. It is a most unusu 
atmosphere of absolute sympathy, an 
a distinctive salon-like eclat marks tr 
Apollo Club of Boston as unique. 

Not only is the club composed of ii 



vited members, but its audiences are 
composed of invited subscribers only. 
This prime characteristic of Apollo 
concerts has existed since the begin- 
ning of the organization. 

The Apollo Club of Boston is now in 
its thirty-ninth year. It was founded 
n 1871 ; the Chickering Club, a group 
of twelve men singers, forming its nu- 
cleus. The practice of giving concerts 
Dnly to in- 

ni rited guests 
vas a char- 
icteristic of 
;he Chicker- 

k ngClub. To 

1 :his nucleus 

si were added 
nore than a 
score of in- 
erested and 
levotees, and 
|it the close 
3f the last 
m e e t i n g a 
lub of fifty- 
wo members 
1 a d been 
o r m e d . 
\mong the 
lumber were 
Mien A. 
Brown, who 
swell known 
In this coun- 
try and in 
Europe as an 
)f music and 
uusical literature; Dr. Samuel W. 
jvangmaid, a well-known physician; 
George H. Chickering, of piano fame; 
\rthur Reed, an earnest, experienced 
bid untiring worker; Charles James 
^prague, bank cashier, poet and Ger- 
nan scholar, who did the translations 
or the use of the club, and many 

Mr. B. J. Lang, the well-known mu- 
ician, was the first conductor. He con- 
inued as conductor of its choir of men 
rom its beginning in 1871 to his volun- 

Benjamin J. Lang, first conductor 

tary retirement as conductor in 1901, 
whereupon he was made president of 
the club. From the first it was a group of 
intimate and sympathetic followers of 
art whose artistic tendencies had been 
highly cultivated. The Apollo Club of 
Boston sprang out of and was a part 
of the salon days of Boston. In its be- 
ginning it might well be called a salon 
of musical culture whose distinguish- 
ing peculiari- 
ty and pur- 
pose as set 
down in the 
by-laws, was 
the practice 
and perform- 
ance of part- 
songs and 
choruses for 
male voices 
and the culti- 
vation o f a 
refined taste 
in this class 
of music. It 
sprang from 
Olympus, — 
from that 
fragrant inti- 
macy of con- 
genial, intel- 
lectual and 
refined com- 
which was 
generous and 
unp r e c i p i- 
t a t e , and 
which the 
few old Bos- 
tonians who 
remain realize has well-nigh passed. 
And it is a passing of spirit as well as 
of flesh. 

Perhaps no remaining function of 
•that period has as well preserved its 
pristine contour and intent as has the 
Apollo Club of Boston. It not only 
was but is one of the choicest plants of 
the artistic florescence of Boston's 
Olympic Hill of that while now forty 
years past. It has refused to feed upon 
aught but the warm sunshine emanat- 
ing from the sons of that same Olympic 



Emil MOI^IvKNHAUER, present conductor 

Hill. It is that tenure to old proper- 
ties, as it were, that constant claim 
which it has always made for the aristos, 
which has preserved it as unique, dis- 
tinguished and cherished. 

At the time of the first informal con- 
cert, on September 5, 1871, there were 
fifty-two active members, and but one 
hundred and ninety-three on the asso- 
ciate list. This first concert was a great 
success, and the associate list soon 
numbered the restricted five hundred. 
These associate (non-singing) mem- 
bers have the privilege of purchasing 

tickets for the concerts of the club. 

There has also existed an honorary 
membership, composed of persons dis- 
tinguished for their interest in the pur- 
poses of the club, or who have rendered 
it valuable service. This membership 
numbers four — Allen A. Brown, Arthur 
Reed, B. J. Lang and Mr. Chickering. 

The first president, who remained in 
office for eleven years, up to the time of 
his death, was Judge John Phelps Put- 
nam. Following him were such repre- 
sentative men as Robert M. Morse, 
Hon. John Lathrop, Colonel Arnold A. 



Rand, Solomon Lincoln, George H. 
I Chickering, Charles S. Hamlin and_B. 
J. Lang. None of these were active 
members. In 1904 Courtenay Guild 
was elected president, and since that 
time the club has realized and reaped 
I the marked advantage of having an 
active and working president who is 
filled with an enthusiastic and generous 
interest in its welfare and who pro- 
motes its every interest. A genial hu- 
manism and genuine generosity and 
a kindliness which is unusual, charac- 
terize Mr. Guild and make him loved. 
His is a most fitting nature to preside 
over this band of brotherly good fellow- 

! Horace J. Phipps, the present secre- 
tary, is a veteran active member. Mr. 
Arthur Reed, the ■ original secretary, 
B filled the office for twenty-five years. 
In the intervening period Mr. Henry 
Basford filled the office until his death. 
He was succeeded by Mr. Albert Har- 
low. Mr. Phipps has been secretary 
for the past eight years. The office of 
secretary invests its holder with a 

(great burden of responsibility. The 
issuing of notices of every sort and im- 
portance are dependent upon him, and 
with a large associate list the task is 
not a small one for an otherwise busy 
man. Glancingover some of the calls to 
rehearsals, etc., sent out by Mr. Phipps, 
one finds some especially clever ones, 
and he has been an indefatigable and 
unusually efficient worker in the club's 

The following is an example of his 
efforts to clinch the memory of the 
actives in obeying the call to duty : 

"One hundred and eight years ago, 
on St. Valentine's day, Napoleon said 
'Apollo is perfect' ; two weeks ago Emil 
Mollenhauer said 'Not quite.' 

"To make Napoleon's statement true 
it will be appropriate to have a little 
brushing up of the dusty parts on Sun- 
day, the fourteenth, at three-thirty 
P. M." 
| Mr. Emil Mollenhauer, the director 
llt . of the club since 1901, stands among 
re . the foremost of his profession. Too 
se much could not be said in regard to 
^ efficiency as a conductor, or of his 

masterly skill in interpretation. In the 
case of the Apollo Club of Boston the 
instrument which he has in hand is an 
alert and knowing band of voices, but 
every praise is due to Mr. Mollen- 
hauer's efficiency and subtle command. 
At the present date the officers of the 
club are: Courtenay Guild, president; 
John K. Berry, vice-president; Horace 
J. Phipps, secretary; Thomas H. Hall, 

The seat, oe the Apoi,i,o Cujb 

treasurer; W. F. Littlefield, librarian; 
Emil Mollenhauer, conductor; H. A. 
Dennison, chairman of the voice com- 
mittee; George L. Parker, chairman of 
the music committee. 

The last concert, given in Jordan 
Hall, on February 16, was the two hun- 
dred and sixth concert of the club. The 
first formal concert of the Apollo Club 
of Boston was given in December, 
1871. From that time four formal con- 
certs have been given each winter. In 
the earlier days each concert was re- 
peated at least once, and there were 
public rehearsals, one each month. Even 
these latter were attended by invita- 
tion, and became events of first musi- 
cal importance locally. 

The first concerts of the organiza- 
tion were given in old Music Hall. 
An account which refers to the first 
formal concert in 1871 says: "Music 
Hall was packed with an audience com- 
posed of the elite of Boston." The re- 
port of the critic refers to the strong, 
resonant and fine quality of the voices, 
the light and shade, delicate pianissimo 
swelling into a storm of power with beau- 
tiful, smooth gradation ; the clear, crisp 



enunciation of all the words as with 
one voice; the mingling and wielding 
of the transitional expression as though 
one mind directed it. A glance at the 
chronicling of the critics on down to 
the present time reveals a most uni- 
form set of decrees. Perhaps no other 
club has been so constant in its attain- 
ment of refined excellence. Article 
after article down the years refers to 
the more than apparent atmosphere of 
good-co m- 
radeship b e- 
t w e e n per- 
formers, con- 
ductor and 

On No- 
vember 9, 
1909, the two 
hundre d t h 
concert was 
given in Sym- 
phony Hall. 
The club was 
assisted by 
Miss Gerald- 
ine F a r r a r 
and the Bos- 
t o n Festival 
Orchestra. It 
was a mem- 
orable event. 
Just before 
the second 
part of the 
concert the 
president o f 
the club, Mr. 
Guild, made 
a graceful 
and humor- 
ous speech, 

in which he paid tribute to the past 
services of Mr. Lang and Mr. Mollen- 
hauer, the present conductor. Mr. 
Guild, with a few clever and well- 
chosen remarks (among which: "Al- 
though of the Apollo I need not apollo- 
gize for this") presented Mr. George 
C. Wiswell with a silver loving-cup. 
Mr. Wiswell is the only original mem- 
ber of the club who is now actively 

Program cover design by H. A. Dennison 

connected as a singer, and who has 
sung in all but one of the concerts 
which have taken place since its or- 

This two hundredth concert was the 
first departure of the club from entirely 
quasi-private performance. It was a 
thrilling occasion, marked by the mu- 
tual loyalty of new friends to old and of 
old friends to one another. 

Aside from the distinguishing fea- 
tures of this 
club, which 
have already 
been dwelt 
upon, its very 
nature makes 
it unique, 
and to pass 
in review its 
over two 
hundred pro- 
grams i s t o 
gaze upon an 
especial cor- 
ner of mu- 
sic's flower 
garden. This 
corner is for 
men's voices 
a n d so t h e 
growth can 
never be a 
one. But it is 
aglow with 
deeply and 
richly reso- 
nant color- 
i n g s. Mu- 
sic for male 
voices is usu- 
ally referred 
to as limited. 
Yes, and no. Yes, where the reference is 
to the quantity of it. But upon reflect- 
ing upon the uniquely vibrant buoyancy 
one feels during the lifting up of the 
voices of a choir of over seventy 
men, I would rather say that such 
music is only sensitively characteristic, 
and that the rarity of its beauty is most 
subtly dependent upon attuning and 
alertly sensitive refinement. Such an 



organization is acutely related to the 
solo viola or even the solo 'cello. In 
these cases the critic should not be- 
moan the sparsity of literature, but 
realize, demand and laud the acute 
musicianship necessary to make the 
performance of such works refined and 
without the rough edge of clumsiness. 

Even granting the sparsity of such 
literature, — literature for male voices, 
for solo viola or even solo 'cello — there 
is vastly more of it than amateurs and 
even the average professional can ex- 
ploit with finished grace and fluency. 

After a concert by the Apollo Club of 
Boston you have realized an artistic ex- 
ploitation characterized by virility and 
finish and life, and you ransack the mu- 
sician's technical pigeon-holes and pull 
out resonance and excellent rhythmic 
attack and wonderful shading, from the 
most delicate pianissimo to a storm of 
volume and the ensemble as of one 
voice. It might be interesting, if not 
advantageous, to just feel its deep, 
dusky reds and its gleams of golden- 
yellow brilliancy as a vitally psycho- 
logical emanance. Love songs, drink- 
ing songs, tramping songs, songs of 
glee — they are all experiences lived 
right out of the lives of any man in any 
age, either in spirit of desire or of actu- 
ality. The subject matter of music for 
male voices, for viola, for 'cello, is the 
music which comes nearest to being 
the cry of the human soul. The music 
for women's voices and for soprano 
violins is concerned with poetic im- 
agery and idealistic fancy. Even the 
lullaby is not universally a feminine 
experience to which every woman is 
vitally alive. Love, to a degree, and 
comradeship, to a degree, is an experi- 
ence of every man. A chorus of men's 
voices is really a symposium of broth- 
erly experience. Ergo, the resonance 
and verve of rich, red blood. Add to 
this the blue blood of refinement of 
this particular fellowship which I am 
considering, and lo! the royal purple 
of artistic polish and acute sensitive- 
ness to subtle niceties which the critics 
always accord its every performance. 

The program of the one hundred and 
ninetieth concert, given in Jordan Hall 

on February 21, 1906, contained an in- 
teresting feature. Six ancient folk- 
songs of the Netherlands, from a col- 
lection written in 1606, were given. 
They are stirring songs out of the lives 
of men struggling for free breath. 
There is a mood of sorrow and one of 
war; one of tender parting and of dar- 
ing and the thanksgiving of hearts that 
have bled. On the same program is 
''Three Glasses," by Fisher; "Minstrel 
Song," by Zauder; "A Hymn," by 
Mohr, and a "Valentine," by Horatio 

The concert of November 16, 1905, 
contains memorable numbers — Krem- 
ser's "Hymn to the Madonna," — and 
Bruch's "Frithjof" cantata is another 
of their massive accomplishments. At- 
tenhofer's "Storm" is also a number 
which is tremendously impressive. 
This and "Sunday on the Ocean," by 
Heinze, are among their most effective 

A very worthy achievement was the 
rendition of the Wagner "Knights 
of the Grail" chorus at the Boston 
Svmphony Pension Fund concert in 
April of 1906. The "Soldier's Chorus," 
from "Faust," by Gounod, has been 
given several times, of course. At the 
one hundred and ninety-fourth concert 
in February of 1907 the "Rhapsodie," 
from Goethe's "Hartzreise im Winter," 
by Brahms, was given with contralto 
solo and piano and organ accompani- 
ment, and the club proved its power to 
interpret this nobly eloquent and im- 
pressive work. 

. The assistance of orchestral accom- 
paniment is many times noted. In the 
early days, it is said, B. J. Lang's sug- 
gestion of such co-operation was an- 
swered by some heads which shook 
negation at him, because they did not 
wish their hard labor and effective 
achievements to be "drowned out by a 

At the one hundred and ninety- 
eighth concert the "Hymn" by Arch- 
bishop O'Connell, "Pracclara Custos Vir- 
ginium" was given with tenor solo and 
organ and piano accompaniment. The 
rendering it received made Father 
O'Connell's music most eloquent. The 



club has also given, with full orcehstra 
and for the first time in Boston, Men- 
delssohn's "To the Sons of Art," "An- 
tigone" and "Oedipus at Colonus," 
Max Bruch's "Roman Song of Tri- 
umph," Hiller's "Easter Morning," 
Brahm's "Rinaldo," Whiting's "Free 
Lances," "March of the Monks of Ban- 
gor" and "Henry of Navarre," Bram- 
bach's "Columbus," Paine's "Sum- 
mons to Love" and "Oedipus Tyran- 
nus," Foote's 
"Farewell to 
Hiawat ha" 
and Nicode's 
"The Sea." 
Several of 
these were 
written for 
the club, be- 
sides smaller 
works and 
single c h o- 
ruses for 
male voices 
and orches- 
tra, by Wag- 
n e r, Strong, 
Raff, Gold- 
mark, Rubin- 
stein, Ber- 
lioz, innu- 
merable part- 
songs of Ger- 
man, French 
and English 
origin, and 
many by our 
own com- 
posers — ■ 
Paine, Chad- 
wick, Lang, Whiting, Buck, Foote, 
MacDowell, Osgood and others. 

Among the soloists who have ap- 
peared are : Richard Arnold, Gustav 
Danreuther, Fritz Giese, Thomas Ryan, 
Camilla Urso, Ernest Perabo, Ovide 
Musin, Carl Faelten, Leopold Lichten- 
berg, Adele aus der Ohe, Xaver Reiter, 
Giuseppe Campanari, Anton Hekking, 
Maud Powell, Lilian Blauvelt, Alvin 

Program illustration for King Olaf's Christmas 
by Dudley Buck 

Schroeder, Henri Marteau, Marie Nich- 
ols, Franz Kneisel, Josef Hoffmann, 
Max Heinrich, Johanna Gadski, Pol 
Plancon, David Bispham, Mme. Szu- 
mowska and Geraldine Farrar. 

The club in its earliest times was 
called upon to join in public functions 
of distinction. The first occasion of 
this sort was at the funeral services of 
the Hon. Charles Sumner in Music 
Hall, April 29, 1874. 

On June 
17, 1875, the 
club assisted 
at the ser- 
vices around 
the m o rt u- 
ment in cele- 
b r a t i o n of 
the one hun- 
dredth anni- 
versary of 
the battle of 
Bunker Hill. 
Again, on 
they gave a 
concert in 
honor of 
Hayes, who 
was visiting 
Boston then. 
The homes 
of the club 
have been va- 
rious, each, 
h o w e v e r , 
with the gen- 
eral charac- 
acter of hav- 
ing a music- 
room for re- 
hearsals and 
a set of rooms 
for social enjoyment. For a time they 
met at the Hallett's music-rooms on 
Tremont street ; then for a longer time 
they were in the Chickering building; 
also in the Chickering Hall building on 
Huntington avenue, and at present at 
Three Joy street. 

Interspersed between the programs 
are frequent sheets which chronicle the 
occurrence of dinners and suppers and 



other jovial appeasings of the inner 
man. There is many a clever turning 
of verse written therein. The "Hymn 
Before Action," by Kipling, becomes 
as follows : 

Him After Auction 

His mind was full of anger, his eyes 
were red with wrath ; 

He walked along the Common and 
stamped along the path. 

Three hours he'd been in auction- 
rooms — it was his first offence ; 

He failed to get the Persian rug — his 
bid was fifty cents. 

At the supper following the one hun- 
dredth concert of the club, in 1886, 
some of the leaders of. the club were 
sketched in humorous and brotherly 
fashion by Arthur Reed, the original 
secretary. Pie refers to himself as a 
well-meaning scribe, but an ever-pres- 
ent thorn in the flesh and whipper-in. 
Referring to Henry M. Aiken, he said : 
"The gleeful, of whom it is- rumored 
that as he lay in his cradle on the sec- 
ond day of his life he was heard to lift 
up his voice, singing, 'Beauties, have 
you seen a toy,' followed immediately 
with 'Which is the properest day to 

On this same occasion Mr. Reed 
mentioned the fact that it was a rather 
odd coincidence that the club was 
formed in seventy-one; "that we now 
have seventy-one active members, and 
that every one of that number was pres- 
ent at the one hundredth concert given 
last evening (December 21, 1886)." 

The club was incorporated in 1873 
by a special act of the Legislature, dur- 
ing the presidency of Judge John 
Phelps Putnam. Robert M. Morse, Jr., 
was the five hundredth associate mem- 
ber elected in 1871, and was the second 
president, and is still a regular attend- 
ant at the concerts. With his election 
the limit of associate membership pro- 
vided for by the by-laws was reached, 
and for the twenty years following 
there was a waiting list, and that is the 
case to-day. 

Among the names on the list of the 
original fifty-two members is that of 
Henry Clay Barnabee of "The Bos- 
tonians" fame ; also Myron W. Whit- 
ney, the great bass. 

The club has acquired a musical col- 
lection of no small proportions. Aside 
from this source to draw from, they 
have always had access to the une- 
qualled musical library of Allen A. 
Brown (which now occupies a spacious 
room in the Boston Public Library). 
Mr. Brown served for years on the 
music committee. 

A reprint of the program of the first 
concert given by the Apollo Club of 
Boston in Horticultural Hall on No- 
vember 7, 1871, may be of interest : 

"Spring Night" Fischer 

"Cheerful Wanderer" Mendelssohn 

"I Long for Thee" Hartel 

"Praise of Song" . . . Maurer 

"Soldier's Farewell". Kinkel 

"Serenade" Mendelssohn 

"Loyal Song" Kucken 

"Lovely Night" . .Chwatal 

"Miller's Song" Zoellner 

"The Voyage" Mendelssohn 

"Serenade" . Eisenhofer 

"Rhine Wine Song" Mendelssohn 

The advent of quartettes, orchestras 
and other musical organizations fur- 
nished a competition which had to be 
combatted, but the Apollo Club of Bos- 
ton has always held its own in achiev- 
ing excellence and in demanding atten- 
tion and support. 

Since the presidency of Mr. Guild 
and the secretaryship of Mr. Phipps 
began, an eyer-increasingly active ar- 
dor and enthusiasm has illuminated the 
organization. The active members now 
number nearly eighty men. And not 
only these eighty men, but their five 
hundred associated friends and also 
their unassociated allies, realize that 
the Apollo Club of Boston has always 
been, and is, and more than bids fair to 
be, one of the most constant and refin- 
ing and cherished influences of Bos- 
ton's musical history and of her artistic 
and intellectual life. 

w&j \ 

The wharves oe Gloucester 

Le Beau Port 



Illustrated from photographs by H. W. Spooner 

OF the above titles, the first is 
that by which Gloucester Har- 
bor was, with singular felicity, 
descriptively named by the great 
Champlain in 1606, this being his sec- 
ond visit to the point which he consid- 
ered one of the most important, strate- 
gically and commercially, on the coast. 
The sub-title is from the pen of the 
Rev. Cotton Mather, who in 1680 vis- 
ited the colony, which at that time had 
already attained to considerable impor- 

Time has done nothing to change 
the aptness of either phrase. Glouces- 
ter is still a fishing town, sea-browned, 
while its beautiful location attracts 
thousands annually, during the months 
of the great shoreward migration that 
is so engaging a feature of modern life. 

From the beginning the Gloucester 
fisheries have been a force in the build- 
ing of the nation. Passing over the 
earlier visits of white men to the shores 
of Cape Ann, — the semi-mythical land- 
ing of the Norsemen and the romantic 
but futile explorations of Captain John 
Smith, who named the harbor after the 
Turkish lady who had intervened for 
the saving of his life and the three 
islands from the three luckless Turks 
whose heads he had cut off, — we come 
to the settlement made by the "Dor- 
chester Colony" in 1623. 

The object of the settlement, in 
which wealthy English gentlemen were 

interested, was the pursuit of the fish- 
eries, which had been so profitably fol- 
lowed on the New England coast since 
1606, and for which the location of 
Gloucester was and is so eminently 
well adapted. 

The site of the settlement where was 
erected their "stage," or wharf, is that 
which is now known as Stage Fort, 
and is appropriately held as a public 
reservation. It lies just to the south of 
the present city, a fair eminence, rock- 
girt, and commanding a noble view of 
the harbor and the sea beyond. 

In 1624 Roger Conant was appointed 
governor and the settlement attracted 
marked attention. The Plymouth col- 
ony claimed jurisdiction over it, and 
went so far as to attempt to make good 
their claim by force of arms, an expe- 
dition under command of the doughty 
Miles Standish himself laying siege to 
the strongly barricaded quarters of the 
independent colony. Conant succeeded 
in pointing out the way to peace with- 
out bloodshed, and a modus yivendi was 
established. The fisheries were suc- 
cessful, the first cargoes of Gloucester 
fish going to Bilboa, Spain, and prov- 
ing very profitable. The agricultural 
portion of the colony, however, did not 
find the situation so favorable. The 
whole region is very rocky and the 
amount of arable land small. The 
farming part of the community ac- 
cordingly moved southward, leaving 




The bei^-buoy at Norman's Woe reee 

Gloucester a strictly maritime settle- 
ment. The name Gloucester, by the 
way, had already been chosen in re- 
membrance of the beautiful English 
cathedral city from which so many of 
the adventurers had come. 

Thus for nearly three hundred years 
Gloucester has maintained its charac- 
ter and still ranks as the most impor- 
tant fishing- port in America. The sea- 
faring life has bred a hardy race of 
men, who have played an important 
part in our great national struggles; 
from Bunker Hill, where two compa- 
nies of Gloucester men were engaged 
in the battle, and the disastrous cam- 
paign before New York City, where 
the fishermen of Massachusetts, by 
their firmness and intrepidity, saved 
Washington's army from annihilation, 

to the late Spanish war, in which 
five hundred Gloucester fishermen re- 
sponded to the nation's call for skilled 

This long period of continuous de- 
velopment along one line is unique in 
American life, and confers upon 
Gloucester a stamp of individuality 
that is as interesting as it is unusual, 
at least on this continent. 

The growth of the city has been re- 
markably even. In 1873, after two hun- 
dred and thirty-one years of corporate 
life, the town government was changed 
for a city charter. The present popula- 
tion of the city is about 33,000. It is 
thirty-three miles from Boston on the 
Gloucester Branch of the Eastern Di- 
vision of the Boston & Maine Railroad, 
and is the metropolis of the great 
North Shore summer colony. 

This summer life is certainly an im- 
portant and growing feature of the 
place. Cape Ann, surrounded by water 
on three sides and perpetually swept by 
ocean breezes, is virtually free from 
fog, and its cool, clear atmosphere af- 
fords grateful relief to the city toiler. 
It is said that among the earliest sum- 
mer visitors to this district were the 
Brook Farm Transcendentalists, who 
made Pigeon Cove the point for their, 
annual summer pilgrimages, doing the 
distance from Boston by stage — a long, 
hard, day's journey — and that was only 
seventy-five years ago. To-day it is 
an easy hour's ride, and at least fifteen 
thousand people annually seek its salu- 
brious summer climate and the refresh- 
ment afforded by its scenic beauty and 
varied recreations. 

But what of the fisheries? Have 
they prospered? Are they followed 
to-day with the old-time vigor and en- 

I think that the contrary has been 
generally reported and believed. As a 
matter of fact, Gloucester-cured fish is 
a very much finer product to-day than 
it ever was, and the market is a grow- 
ing one. The business is carried on 
by a number of very strong firms, and 
their trade is national in its scope. The 
method of conducting the business has 
unquestionably changed, and, as is al- 



ways the case, the period of transition 
and adaptation to new conditions has 
been one of depression. But the past 
year has been one of the best that the 
Gloucester fisheries ever knew, and 
there is every reason to believe that 
this is but the beginning of a new era 
of prosperity. 

There are three principal reasons for 
the renewed prosperity of this ancient 
trade. The first has already been re- 

higher price for the product than they 
would if a portion of it had to be sold 
at a reduced price. In the packing of 
the fish, also, the scientific spirit of the 
age has introduced many improve- 
ments. Formerly it was not practica- 
ble to attempt to sell packed fish in the 
summer months. To-day Gloucester 
packed fish products keep in perfect 
condition throughout the summer 
months. And this lengthening of the 

Cape Ann Light, showing "Mother Ann" on the extreme point 

ferred to. It is the improvement of the 
product. The packers no longer ac- 
cept fish from the vessels unless they 
are in prime condition. Formerly fish 
were graded and cargoes that were in 
a very bad condition could still find a 
sale at some price. The adoption of 
stricter regulations has resulted in no 
hardship or loss to the fishermen, for 
they are simply compelled to take 
greater pains to properly, salt and pack 
their catch on board and receive a 

season is the second element that en- 
ters into the growing prosperity of the 
Gloucester fisheries. 

The third important factor in this 
growth is that the great packers have 
entered upon a campaign of advertis- 
ing that introduces their product into 
thousands of homes where it was for- 
merly unknown as an article of diet, 
and this extension of the market seems 
to possess almost limitless possibilities. 

But will the fisheries be able to 



The winter rig oe the Gloucester schooner 

supply this increased demand? Un- 
questionably, yes. The fish are in the 
sea, and granted a market that will 
make their catching- and packing remu- 
nerative, there will be no difficulty, and 
never has been any difficulty, in secur- 
ing them. 

As the question of feeding the im- 
mense human population of the globe 
becomes more and more acute, so tre- 
mendously important an element of 
diet as that of packed fish will assume 
larger and larger proportions in our 
national balance sheet. It is an inter- 
esting fact that to-day practically the 
entire Gloucester catch is sold to the 
home market. There is practically no 
export trade in Gloucester-packed fish, 
for the simple reason that the home de- 
mand absorbs the present supply at 
the present price; but the supply could 
be enormously increased at a very 
slightly increased price. 

The prosperity of Gloucester is 
founded upon that bedrock foundation, 
a primary article of world dietary. 

It has been quite widely believed by 
those who are only cursorily informed 
that the Gloucester fish business has 
been and is being steadily transferred 
to Boston. This idea is founded upon 
misinformation. Boston to-day, and not 
Gloucester, is the centre of the fresh fish 
trade. Gloucester still is, as it always 
has been, the center of the fish-packing 

In this connection a few items of sta- 
tistical information will be informing. 
Considerable pains have been taken to 
make the following figures authorita- 
tive. They are furnished in part by 
Mr. Arthur L. Millet, the expert sta- 
tistician and commercial reporter of the 
fisheries ; Mr. J. E. Lenhart, wholesale 
fish dealer and chairman of the publici- 
ty committee of the Board of Trade. 

The Gloucester fishing fleet numbers 
about 275 sail, with a gross tonnage of 
about 22,000 tons. Large fishing 
schooners predominate, but there are 
many small craft; also small steamers 
and gasoline propelled craft. Some of 



the large vessels and quite a number 
of the smaller craft are also fitted with 
gasoline auxiliary power. 

The fishing grounds frequented by 
Gloucester vessels extend from Cape 
Hatteras to Greenland, and the length 
of trips varies from a day or two for the 
little boats to five and six months for 
some of the larger vessels which go for 
salt cod or "flitched" halibut, the latter 
up among the icefields and icebergs of 
the Labrador coast and Davis strait. 

These figuresforthenumberof vessels 
at this port do not include small craft 
under five tons, of which there are many. 

The fisheries have been prosecuted 
here since the place was founded, but 
records of earlier losses have not been 
accurately reported. Since 1830 the 
figures are as follows : 

Vessels lost 779 

Tonnage 41,757 

Value $3,952,996 

Insurance $3,035,058 

Lives lost 5,304 

Widows left behind 1,064 

Children left behind 2,144 

From this it will appear that in a pe- 
riod of eighty years the entire fleet has 
been practically lost three times ! These 
are solemn facts that throw a very 
vivid light on the dangers that sur- 
round the fisherman's calling. In an 
editorial paragraph in our New Eng- 
land Department will be found tabu- 
lated statistics of the catches. 

It will be but a small number of our 
readers to whom the Gloucester fishing 
schooner is not familiar. This swift, 
staunch and beautiful craft is the crea- 
tion of these fisheries. Her great 
strength and stability tells of the dan- 
gers in the midst of which the fisher- 
man's calling is followed. Her speed 
tells of the shrewdness and "smart- 
ness" essential to success. Her gen- 
eral rig and style tell of the ingenuity 
and inventiveness of those who devised 
this instrument for the conquest of the 
boisterous northern seas. No better 
or more beautiful craft ever sailed on 
any sea. 

The manning of these vessels is by 
crews who work on a co-operative sys- 
tem that is both interesting and in- 





The Eeakes. Drying sai/ted Eish. 

structive. Each man on board the boat 
takes -his risk in the result and his 
share of the success of the trip. These 
shares are known as "lays." The sys- 
tem is a survival of the shares which 
the original adventurers took in the 
founding of the colony, and it is a case 
of the survival of fitness. 

It is more than doubtful if any other 
system of payment would result satis- 
factorily. The business is one in which 
the individual workman needs the in- 
centive of his own profit, for every- 
thing depends upon his energy, cour- 
age and skill. The game that he plays 
is one that requires a kind of fortitude 
and daring that is only bred of such an 
independence and sense of being his 
own master as this system produces. 
Whether or not the cash receipts are at 
the end of the year equivalent to wages 
may be a subject of endless discus- 
sion. vSo much depends upon so many 
ifs. Certain it is that it avoids all dis- 
putes and breeds intelligence, inde- 
pendence and manhood. Rough men 
these Gloucester sailors may be, but 
they are manly fellows. They certainly 

lift the lid a little when they come 
ashore from a long trip ; but there are 
some things that they do not do, and 
those things are such as might be 
grouped under the general heads of 
meanness and cowardice. 

The old Yankee stock has very 
largely prospered out of the work, if I 
might be permitted to coin such an ex- 
pression. They have made enough 
money to educate their children to 
callings involving less hardship, and but 
few of them are found aboard the fleet 
to-day. The crews are largely recruited 
from the descendants of the Scotch and 
English settlers of Nova Scotia. They 
become naturalized Americans, for they 
cannot hope to become the masters of 
vessels otherwise, and they recruit our 
population with a shrewd, hardy and 
honest body of men racially the same 
as our older Yankee stock. There are 
a number of Portuguese fishermen in 
Gloucester, and they are very highly 
thought of, too, but of other nationali- 
ties there are very few. 

Thus co-operatively manned, and 
her decks piled high with nested dories 



or the great seine-boats, and her hold 
laden with ice or salt or both, our 
beautiful schooner stands out for the 
Grand Banks or the treacherous, un- 
charted coasts still farther to the north, 
her canvas all set and drawing — a 
beautiful picture. More space than we 
have at our disposal would be required 
to describe the manner of taking the 

The cod fishery, which is the staple 
industry, is pursued with hook and line, 
with trawls, gill-nets and with jiggers. 
The greater part of the cod fishing is 
done with a trawl. The trawl is a long 
line from which shorter hooked and 
baited lines 'depend. At each end of 
the trawl is an anchor, and a buoy or 
marker by which to locate the trawl, 
which is kept very near the bottom. 
Trawls are baited and coiled in tubs 
and set from dories, usually manned by 
two men, the lines being skilfully 
tossed overboard by a little flirting 
fling with a short stick. The usual 
equipment of a large vessel carrying 
ten dories, is six line-tubs to each 
dory. Each line is 300 feet long and is 
fitted with from 80 to 100 hooks; so 
that, with all trawls set, a vessel is 
covering over 20 miles of fishing 
ground with some 30,000 hooks. 

This method necessitates the dories 
being at considerable distances from 
the vessel, which is often left to be 
handled by the cook alone; and it is 
this disposition of the crew that is the 
principal source of the loss of life. 

Next in importance to trawling .is 
seining with the purse seine, which is 
the usual way of catching mackerel 
and sometimes of other fish. 

The purse seine, as the name indi- 
cates, may be drawn together by a cord 
that is reeved into it top and bottom. 
The mackerel seine is about 225 fath- 
oms long and is set from a seine-boat, 
which is a kind of large whale-boat of 
a peculiar Gloucester design. After a 
school of mackerel is sighted the crew 
take to the oars, and the game is to 
row swiftly enough to surround a good 
proportion of them with the long net, 
which is paid out as the men row in a 
circle and quickly gathered up with 
the pursing cords before the fish have 
an opportunity to escape. Mackerel 
are a fish of very peculiar habits, and 
there is much speculation of late as to 
the sudden disappearance of the great 
schools from their usual haunts. 
Whither they have gone no man can 
tell, or at what moment they will sud- 
denly reappear. 

The lobster-man and his mate 



The gill net, as the name signifies, is 
a net that is left suspended in the water 
for a considerable time, until many 
fish become enmeshed by the gills. 

Under some conditions the simple 
hook and line are used, each man hav- 
ing his position along the rail of the 
vessel. "Jigging" is fishing with an 
unbaited and unbarbed hook, which is 
let down (two hooks being fastened to 
the same line and held apart and 
leaded) into schools of fish, which are 
caught by a quick, jerking motion of 
the hand. Sword-fishing is done with 
a harpoon, and is an exciting and dan- 
gerous employment. The fish some- 
times weigh as much as 700 pounds and 
fight desperately. Good swordfish sto- 
ries are part of every fisherman's 
equipment. They do not have to be 

The methods used in the curing and 
packing of fish are full of interest. 
Cleanliness and prompt handling are 
the great requirements. On all the 
longer trips now the fish are cured on 
board the vessel. They are split open, 
fresh from the water, cleaned, thor- 
oughly washed, and packed in pure sea 
salt. When a sufficient catch is made 
the vessel promptly sails for Glouces- 
ter, where the fish are removed from 
the vessel, washed and packed in hogs- 
heads holding about 1200 pounds each. 
Thus they are kept to await the de- 
mands of the trade. When needed they 
are taken out,, washed again, piled up 
in "kench," a process which presses out 
a great part of the pickle. Then they 
are taken to the "flake yards," where 
they are spread out, each fish by itself, 
flesh side up, and dried by sun and 
wind — a process in which the climate 
of Gloucester excels. This process 
calls for experience and judgment, and 
the excellence of the product depends 
upon its being properly done. 

The first step in the packing of the 
dried fish is that of removing the fins, 
backbone and skin. It requires expert 
workmen and much skill. The next 
step is to pull out the remaining bones. 
This is done with pincers by hand, the 
work being carried on by youngwomen 
under the most cleanly conditions. 

There remains but to cut the fish into 
the required lengths and to pack it into 
the neat cartons, wrapped in waxed 
paper, in which form, "absolutely bone- 
less" and perfectly cured, it is mar- 

Mackerel are cured aboard the ves- 
sel and repacked in Gloucester into 
barrels of about 200 pounds each, in 
which form they are marketed. Of late 
there has arisen quite a considerable 
business of selling extra choice mack- 
erel in the original package, for which 
purpose the finest fish are taken and 
packed in smaller packages. 

Smoked herring are handled in the 
winter months, the business having 
very large proportions. They are 
brought from Newfoundland lightly 
salted in the hold of the vessel. They 
are then soaked out and hung in the 
smokehouse until cured to that rich, 
golden brown tint that has made the 
Gloucester product famous. They go 
all over the country under the name of 
"smoked bloater herring." 

Another very important article in 
the line of cured fish is smoked halibut. 
These fish are caught off the danger- 
ous Labrador coast by the trawling 
method. They are cured and sliced 
aboard the vessel. The vessels engaged 
in this trade usually leave Gloucester 
in May and return to Gloucester in 
September. The slices or "flitches" of 
fish are taken from the vessel at 
Gloucester and stored in pickle until 
needed. Then they are taken out, 
washed and a good part of the salt 
soaked out, the waterpressedoutandthe 
pieces hung in the smokehouse, where 
they are subjected to the curing process 
from a smoke that is made by smoulder- 
ing fires of sawdust and oak chips. 

If this brief account of the Glouces- 
ter method of packing and curing fish 
shall have conveyed an idea of freshly- 
caught fish, firm-fleshed from the cold 
northern Atlantic, promptly cleaned 
and salted and carefully packed under 
the most cleanly conditions, it will 
have left a correct impression of the 
preparation of a very important Ameri- 
can food product whose market is con- 
stantly increasing. 



A number of very large and impor- 
tant firms are engaged in the business. 

The Gorton-Pew Fisheries Company, 
which has been established by the 
union of several large concerns, has 
done a great deal for the enlargement 
of the market for Gloucester-packed 
fish. By judicious advertising and di- 
rect contact with the trade the con- 
sumption of cured fish products is 
greatly stimulated. The Cunningham 
& Thompson Company are large own- 
ers of vessels and very large packers, 

make a specialty of selling high-grade 
packed fish direct to the consumer. 
This is a very important and growing 
line of business, in which others also 
are profitably engaged, notably the 
Consumers' Fish Company, of which 
Mr. E. K. Burnham, secretary of the 
Gloucester Board of Trade, is the man- 
aging proprietor. 

The Davis Brothers Company pro- 
duce a number of brands and sell to the 
wholesale trade exclusively. 

William F. Moore & Company, 

. , . - 


putting up a number of well-known 
brands. William H. Jordan & Com- 
pany are the owners of some of the 
finest vessels in Gloucester, including 
the Oriole, which is the crack fishing 
schooner of the world. In last year's 
race from Belle Isle she beat every- 
thing else by many hours. The firm is 
an old one and its brands are well 
known and synonymous with excel- 
The Frank E. Davis Fish Company 

wholesale fish dealers, seek to develop 
the export trade. The Gold Bond Pack- 
ing Company are successful developers 
of the high-grade hotel and family 
trade, while the Gloucester Salt Fish 
Company are both producers and job- 
bers in a broad line, including all of the 
usual Gloucester products, and Charles 
F. Warsar & Company deal in fish spe- 
cialties for the high-class grocery 
trade. Hugh Parkhurst & Company 
are producers and wholesale dealers 



• V ',: : 

Gloucester's attractive High 


who make a specialty of Georges 
tongues and sounds and Georges slack- 
salted pollock. 

Naturally, these men get together for 
the common good, and the Gloucester 
Board of Trade affords them the op- 
portunity for so doing. A committee 
of the board, meeting regularly, estab- 
lishes the price to be paid for fish from 
the vessels, a practice which tends to 
eliminate the old scramble from wharf 
to wharf, which was more entertaining 
to outsiders than profitable to the par- 
ties concerned. 

Mr. Thomas J. Carrol, manager of 
the Gorton-Pew Company, is president 
of the Board of Trade. Mr. Fred A. 
P;erce of the Cunningham-Thompson 
Company, vice-president, and Mr. Ed- 
ward K. Burnham of the Consumers' 
Fish Company is secretary and treas- 
urer. The board is active in many 
ways useful to Gloucester. It engages 
in general advertising, issues a most at- 
tractive book on Gloucester, and seeks 
to develop the city's commercial inter- 
ests along all lines. Industries seeking 
a location favorable for manufacturing 
would learn much to their advantage 
by communicating with them. It is 

doubtful if equally available sites for 
manufacturing or a practical port of 
entry with established shipping can be 
found anywhere else within the same 
distance from Boston at anything like 
the same cost. Indeed, Gloucester has 
free sites to offer to firms that mean 

The Business Men's Association, of 
which Mr. Chick, a large real estate 
dealer, is president, also works for the 
advancement of Gloucester's interests, 
particularly of the summer business, 
and the city government may always 
be counted upon to co-operate. 

There are already established in 
Gloucester many forms of manufact- 
uring outside of the fish business or 
closely allied to it. 

One of the most important of these 
is the Russia Cement Company, which, 
as the manufacturer of Le Page's liquid 
glue, is known the world over. The 
high quality of the product of this firm 
is evidenced by the fact that their make 
of glue for the use of photo-engravers, 
a very exacting trade, is the world's 
standard. The process of manufacture 
is exceedingly interesting. Nothing is 
wasted. That which cannot go into 



glue is sold to the manufacturers of fer- 
tilizer. The industry affords a profit- 
able use for the by-products of the 
packing industry, and is a very impor- 
tant feature of Gloucester's industrial 
life. One may go through the Russia 
Cement Company's plant from end to 
end without the slightest inconven- 
ience from those odors which are sup- 
posed to be inseparable from the manu- 
facture, in so cleanly a manner is the 
work conducted. Not the least impor- 
tant feature of the success of the work 
is the neat form in which the glue is 
packed for the use of the small con- 
sumer and the skill with which the 
product is advertised. 

The Robinson Glue Company is an- 
other very large producer of liquid fish- 
glue of high grade for all purposes. 
Formerly this firm sold only to large 
consumers and to the wholesale trade. 
Recently they have extended their mar- 
keting methods to include the small 
consumer, and have entered upon a 
campaign to put their goods before the 
public in that form. 

E. L. Rowe & Son (incorporated), 
sail-makers and ship-chandlers, origin- 

ally established for the supply of 
Gloucester shipping, have extended 
their business far beyond these limits. 
They are particularly widely known at 
present for the manufacture of Rowe's 
Gloucester bed hammock, a ' popular 
veranda luxury. 

One of the largest plants in Glouces- 
ter is that of the Gloucester Net & 
Twine Company, which has success- 
fully extended its market beyond the 
Gloucester demand, and is to-day doing 
a business in all parts of the world. 

It would be obviously impossible to 
even mention all of the industries lo- 
cated in a city the size of Gloucester. 
The above have been particularly men- 
tioned because of the very direct way 
in which they have developed from the 
fishing industry of the city. The same 
may also be said of the manufacture of 
oiled clothing by the Boynton's Im- 
proved Process Company and by the 
Gloucester Oiled Clothing Company, 
the C. R. Corliss & Son Company, the 
L,. Nickerson Company and the J. H. 
Rowe Company. 

While nothing could be more whole- 
some and natural than this develop- 




ment of manufacturing out of the by- 
products of the fishing industry and to 
meet its needs, there is an opening for 
other lines of manufacture in the city, 
which is most advantageously located 
for any general line of manufacturing. 

The early farmers of Gloucester 
found, as we have previously intimated, 
that they had indeed cast their lot on 
a "stern and rock-bound coast." They 
did not realize that some day those 
very rocks would be farmed more prof- 
itably than a kindlier soil. The granite 
industry of Cape Ann is a very impor- 
tant asset for Gloucester. It is a very 
durable and beautiful stone, and has 
been employed in many of the proudest 
structures in the country. It is also 
splendidly fitted for paving, as it is ex- 
ceedingly durable and non-absorbent of 
moisture, which makes it a very sani- 
tary form of pavement. 

The fine old city of Gloucester is by 
no means absorbed in its industrial life. 
There is a broad and fine development 
of social activity along the lines that 

minister to the higher life. There is a 
very fine choral organization in the city ; 
an active camera club that produces 
work of unsurpasesd artistic merit — for 
which, indeed, it has unsurpassed op- 
portunities ; two public libraries, a fish- 
ermen's institute, master mariners' as- 
sociation, a most excellently conducted 
working-girls' club, and many other in- 
stitutions that are unique and possess 
Gloucester individuality, besides those 
usual to all New England communities 
and excellent churches and schools. 

Again and again we find ourselves 
returning to the topic of the beauty of 
the district. Gloucester scenery is not 
to be surpassed by that of any seashore 
point in the world. 

There is a warmth and range of color, 
a softness and clarity of atmosphere 
and an endless variety of detail that has 
won for it the love of a very large artist 
colony, including many of our leading 
American painters. If a more delightful 
place for summer residence exists, we 
have yet to discover its whereabouts. 

The Sawyer free library and Unitarian and Congregational churches 

The White Mask 


AS usual, he was down among the 
There were fifty of them, — 
glorious hybrids of sturdy Catawbiense 
stock, grafted to cuttings from all over 
the world — Nepaul, the Himalayas, the 

On the veranda his young wife, 
dreamily looking out over the broad ex- 
panse of the valley, occasionally turned 
her eyes to where her husband remained 
so idly busy among the great shrubs. 

She had married rich, as she had al- 
ways meant to do. She believed also 
that she had married for love; but she 
had no idea that life could be so empty 
and meaningless up there in the great 
park of Glencairn. 

Slowly the minutes dreamed them- 
selves away. 

It began to grow dark. Soon it 
would be time for dinner and they 
would be sitting face to face, alone, 
and, for the most part, silent. After 
dinner the inevitable opera or chance 
callers— the Pettigrews, perhaps. 

Upton Hallowel, with his perpetual 
and puttering uselessness, was a fixed 
argument against the development of 
an "American aristocracy." Mr. Petti- 
grew, with his eternal pomposities of 
cheap wealth, was a perpetual argu- 
ment in is favor. 

After the call they would step out 
again to the veranda, arm in arm, and 
watch the lights of the city in files and 
battalions march out to their long night 
watches. That was always pretty, but, 
like everything else which Upton Hal- 
lowel touched, it had become too much 
of a function. 

To him, doing the same things in 
the same way never seemed to become 
tiresome. Firmly convinced that the 

Hallowel things were the best things, 
and that the Hallowel way of doing 
them was the best way, he appeared to 
find a childish satisfaction in their end- 
less repetition. 

Minnie believed that she was just as 
true to their first love (she was very 
sure that there had been such a thing) 
as he. But her nature required the ex- 
citement of action. It was only be- 
cause she was inexpressibly bored, so 
she persuaded herself, by the life that 
they were leading that her hand would 
hang so listlessly on his arm, and that 
it was so difficult for her to conceal a 
yawn over his tender moods. 

Hallowel had returned to the ve- 
randa now and made a lover-like place 
for himself on the arm of her chair. 
She drew aside for him, permissively, 
but wearily. To him, on the other 
hand, nothing could have been more 
utterly satisfying. The soft neglige of 
her habit pressed warmly against his 
knee. The lustrous fabrics that she 
wore, and their exquisite make, were 
luxuries afforded by his indulgence. 
The white hand that lay nervelessly on 
her lap was encrusted with costly jew- 
els that were his gift, and little did he 
realize that in the heart of the woman 
at his side that soft, feminine yielding 
was divided by so slender a line from, 
the bitterest repugnance. Even now 
he was playing, and playing rather 
roughly, with its delicate balance, and 
it was only the exertion of her will that 
preserved the equilibrium. 

"I hear that Jimmy Marquand is 
coming home," he said. 

She received the information list- 
lessly and made no reply. Then two 
little pink spots stole into her cheeks. 
But, after all, what of it ! They would 




meet formally enough at some function 
and afterward he would call. There 
would be a little joking, over old mem- 
ories, a few stories of his achievements, 
a few warm congratulations on her suc- 
cess and happiness, and that would be 
all. Yet, somehow, she dreaded that 
inevitable meeting, and, as if thereby 
forestalling it, leaned more receptively 
toward her husband's caresses. 

"Do you know/' he said, "something 
in the air to-night reminds me of our 
excursion up the Nile?" 

The reference was a fortunate one. 
On that occasion a beggarly robber fel- 
low, caught in the act, had turned at 
bay with a weapon drawn, and it had 
been Upton who had met the situation 
with a promptness and nerve more to 
be expected of a man of another 

Now she snatched eagerly at the re- 
membrance and patted his arm grate- 
fully. She felt the balance swing a little 
in his favor, as she so thoroughly be- 
lieved that she wanted it should do ! If 
he would only help ever so little ! 

"Upton, do you remember the rob- 

"That I do— the tatterdemalion." 

"You won something of me — of the 
real me — then. And just that much 
stays won. Just that much of me is 
really yours and always will be." 

"How quickly the brag went out of 

"Yes; you outfaced him in a twinkle. 
You are not afraid of ruffianism — that 
I saw and know. And just so much of 
me as feels a need of protection from 
ruffianism is yours ; but that is not 
much, for I seldom fear. There is a 
great deal more of me than that, and 
it is just aching to be won. But I don't 
suppose that you would think it worth 
your while?" Playfully, she reached 
up her hand, turning his face toward her 
and passing her fingers through his 
hair. And Hallowel understood her 
mood, but not her meaning. Had he 
grasped the latter, he would have been 
indignant; but as it was, realizing her 
receptive tenderness, he put his arm 
about her and drew her toward him. 

"I am more than satisfied," he said, 
"with what I have." 

"Which is rather a compliment to 
my behavior than a reading of my 
heart, and that is what, somehow, I 
feel that I want you to do. I think 
that you would not like it if you did, 
perhaps. But I know that if you read 
it all you would see that it .is heart, and 
that what it wants is honesty, — simply 
to be all yours as really as I am partly 

"I thought that a woman was won 
before she was married." 

"Sometimes; but more often she 
marries in the hope of being won. I 
used to long for all this." She moved 
her hand in a wide circle that indicated 
the wealth of Glencairn. "I thought 
that it would surely win me." Wrapped 
in the delicious, caressing tenderness 
of her mood, he was still unmindful of 
her meaning. 

"And it surely has," he said. She 
bit her lips and hesitated. Yet she was 
not willing to give up. Not that she 
would have thought it best that he 
should see the whole truth, but if he 
might catch an inkling- of it — enough 
to put him on his mettle and lift him 
out of his dullness, his indolence and 
the long, low, sullen fits that they bred 
— it might save her faith in her own 
loyalty to him. There was a touch of 
desperation in her mood. She was 
struggling to retain toward her hus- 
band a feeling, the retention of which 
lay very close to her self-respect. She 
straightened herself in her mental 
eagerness, and in doing so withdrew 
herself a little from him. 

"Things never really win a woman-, 
Upton. Not if she is a woman. Noth- 
ing ever really wins but the strength 
and goodness and truth. Sometimes 
other things seem to, but it is only for a 
little while. You may have all of these 
things and more, but it is doing that 
shows them. They never can appear 
so long as you are satisfied to spend 
day after day scratching around 
among the rhododendrons. And in 
the meanwhile what of me? Am I not 
worth a little effort — am I not worth 



as much as they? You see, Upton, I 
have, too, rather a hard place and 
I am asking help. Am I in the 
wrong? ' 

"In the wrong? Why, no. I do not 
understand why you feel so strongly 
about the rhododendrons; but if you 
do, I'll have Jack dig them up to-mor- 
row. I am not sure but that I am tired 
of them myself. As to the winning of 
you, I don't know just what you mean; 
but don't worry, I am perfectly satis- 
fied." She smiled in spite of herself at 
his simplicity. 

To her, born of a strenuous line of 
the old New England stock, nor ever 
far removed from the privations and 
toil of narrow circumstances, posses- 
sion was synonymous with achieve- 
ment. It was a thing needed to be 
maintained ; to be won and held with 
equal endeavor. Not that she con- 
sciously viewed her relation to her 
husband in this light, but so basic was 
the principle to her character that un- 
consciously she cherished a certain re- 
sentment against the air of proprietor- 
ship which he was wont to assume. 

To Hallowel, on the other hand, pos- 
session signified not achievement, but 
right. Achievement smacked of the 
market and vulgarity, but possession 
was a very dignified thing, into which 
a man came by inheritance. It was 
the very essence of security. Endeavor 
was its antipode. It was not in his na- 
ture to understand her present atti- 

She continued: "I see that I must 
talk to you as I would to a child. Well, 
then, suppose I told you that out by 
the golden-glows on the old garden 
path there was a bold, relentless rob- 
ber, as bad as that one on the Nile, and 
that he was there to steal something 
of yours, — well, say that it was myself 
he wished to steal! Suppose that I 
tell you that he is there, and that I am 
terribly, terribly afraid of him, would 
you do something to help?" 

"Do you mean to say, Minnie, that 
you have seen something in the garden 
to frighten you ?" 

"I have not seen, Upton, because I 

have closed my eyes and refused to 
see. But I know that it is there." 

"That what is there?" 



"Upton, I wish to be honest with 
you. You mentioned a name just now." 

"A name? M — m, Jimmy Mar- 


"What of it?" 

"The old garden walk." 

"Oh, I know. You and Jimmy used 
to walk there; but you were children 
then, and if I am willing to forget I 
should think that you might be." 

"Willing, Upton ? More than willing ! 
But if I need a little help, is it wrong 
for a wife to ask for that?" 

"I do not think that I catch your 

"And I am afraid that I have alreacFy 
spoken more plainly than is right. I 
have trespassed " 

"On my good nature?" 

"No. On your stupidity — forgive me, 
Upton !" 

"What is it that you want me to do?" 

"I heard that you intended to spend 
the day to-morrow transplanting rho- 

"I did— or, rather, I do " 

"You know that tomorrow is elec- 
tion day. You know that there is a 
great struggle betwen those who would 
rule and those who would rob. You 
know that if Marquand was here he 
would be down in the city, to-morrow 
doing a man's part in the fight. We 
live in a world of men, not of rhodo- 

"I think that I prefer the rhododen- 

"And I am afraid that in the end that 
is just what you will get." 

There was nothing left but to con- 
ceal her vexation. She had opened her 
heart, or at least had tried to, and her 
failure angered her. He had not even 
cared to see. Perfect trust? Not at all. 
Just his habitual serene sense of pos- 
session. To his thought she was as 
any other chattel, and that she should 



have any feeling in the matter did not 
seem to "occur to him. 

Later, in her own apartment, while 
a maid arranged her hair for the night, 
her need of expression asserted itself. 

''Marie, did you ever read of South 

"Why, yes; a little, perhaps."' 

"Is it not a wild country?" 

"I think so." 

"And' many dangers of beasts and 
of climate and of savage men?" 

"I have read that in the great in- 
terior it is much like that." 

"And a man from our own people, 
toiling among those dangers for many, 
many years, must be moved by some 
very strong desire above the common 
wish for wealth. Do you think that any- 
thing, Marie, could so move a man?" 

"For love, men have done as much." 

"The braid a little looser please. 
That is better. Do you know, Marie, 
that many a woman whose outward life 
is far above reproach wears from her 
wedding day the scarlet letter on her 

"Ah, yes ; I know that very well ; and 
I should think it were easier to wear it 
more boldly on the breast." 

"If by doing so one might remove it 
from the heart? That is not the way of 
the world. We are not moved by ideals 
— we only talk and write of them. We 
are moved by fears. And fortunate are 
they whose hearts are naturally cow- 
ardly. They fall in without an effort 
with the world's morality, for they are 
moved by the same force that has de- 
termined it. But those of us who do 
not fear must choose, and the choosing 
is hard and either issue bitter. It is 
bitter to wear the fair outside that the 
world demands and live the lie within ; 
and it is bitter to meet the world's 
gibes and reproaches for the sake of a 
pure heart." 

"You are thinking of the wedding 
to-morrow night — of my friend, who 
is very pretty and marries the rich mer- 
chant, although it is Jean that she 
loves. You 'are thinking of her, per- 

"Poor girl ! Perhaps I am. Good- 
night, Marie." 

Mrs. Hallowel's first meeting with 
Marquand after his return was by no 
means as formal as she had forecast. 
It was, in fact, very nearly all that she 
would have had it to be. 

It' was in the old garden walk, where 
the late blossoms of the golden-glow 
still lingered, that she suddenly found 
herself face to face with him. Their 
eyes had met and they could not de- 
cently withdraw. 

"You take the air very early," he said. 

"Yes, I do sometimes," she found 
voice enough to answer, and she dared 
not ask him of his being there. 

"I find most things so changed in the 
old town that it is pleasant to go nosing 
around in search of something that is 
not," he said by way of apology. 

"Your old friends are not changed," 
she answered bravely ; "and now that 
you are here you must come in and 
have breakfast with us. Upton !" she 
called in a loud voice, "come and see. I 
have found a wanderer in the garden, 
and we must take him in like good 

Rigid as marble and as white, she 
awaited some answer to her call. Pres- 
ently they heard the sound of approach- 
ing footsteps, and it soon became evi- 
dent that they were those of the young 
millionaire. Suddenly, when quite 
near, the sounds ceased. He had halted. 
Then they heard a low, impatient ex- 
clamation, a scraping of the concrete 
as he turned sharply on his heel and 
the sound of receding footsteps. 

Not until those had quite died away 
and she began to realize that the situa- 
tion must be changed did she steel her- 
self to raise her eyes, dreading lest 
some uncontrolled softening of her 
glance might loosen the floodgates of 

"Ah! — gone!" she whispered; for, 
taking advantage of the intensity of 
her abstraction, Marquand had slipped 
away. Then she turned to meet her 

"Well, Upton," she said wearily, 
"you had one more chance and you de- 



clined it. Now it is as I said : You 
have your rhododendrons." 

"Where is Marquand?" 

"On his way to South America." 

"He said so?" 

"Oh, no ! Nothing was said. You 
did not come and he has gone. Did 
you imagine, Upton, that anything else 
could have happened? Oh, don't 
trouble to frame an answer ! I only 
wish to make sure that you know all. 
He came and he has gone." 

"And if he had remained?" 

"It is as I said : You have your rho- 

"You will dress now?" 
"For the opera, Marie." 
"This?" questioned the maid, laying 
out her gown. 

Mrs. Hallowel made a wry face. 
Then she laughed coldly. 

"Yes, it may as well be that." Then 
she relapsed into a silence from which 
the voluble chatter of her assistant was 
anable to arouse her, until, dropping to 
her knees to smooth the pleatings of 
her mistress' skirt, she said : 

"We were talking of South America 
the other day." 

"But we will talk of it no more." 

"Ah !" 

"Yes, Marie ; I, too, have played the 
coward part. I have chosen the Great 
White Mask, — the lie that is the pillar 
of our social order !" 

"The pearls to-night? They are 
loveliest on satin. And the ermine 



Can you hear me calling, calling cheerily, 

Bonny Boy? 
Calling ever soft and low, 
Over life's unquiet sea, 
Over vale and hill and lea — ■ 

Bonny Boy! 
As I called you long ago 
From the heather heme to tea, 

Bonny Boy ! 
Where, ah where, the plans we made, 
Years ago we as man and maid? 
Far afield, alas, you've strayed, 

Bonny Boy! 

You must hear me calling, calling tenderly, 

Bonny Boy! 
Calling you to make a fight. 
Your dead soul shall answer me 
Through your sodden apathy, 

Bonny Boy ! 
In your clear, child's eye, the light 
Was no omen of this night, 

Bonny Boy! 
Wake from out your shroud of gloom ; 
Tell me it is not your doom 
In this man to find ? tomb, 

Bonny Boy ! 

The Grange, Its Work and Ideals 


Syn Satirday, I trow that he be went 

For tymber, ther our abbot hath him sent. 

For he is wont for tymber for to goo, 

And dwellen at the Graunge a day or tub. — Chaucer. 

FROM the above, with its spelling 
of knighthood and falconry days, 
it might seem that the grange, 
as we generally understand the term 
to-day, is an institution transmitted by 
the ages. Chaucer lived five centuries 
ago, when a "graunge" was a farming 
establishment attached to a monastery. 
Forty-three years ago, in December, 
1867, the society known as the grange 
was founded in the city of Washington. 
As its name suggests, it is an order of 

It happened in January, 1866, that 
Mr. Oliver H. Kelley, a clerk in the 
United States Department of Agricul- 
ture, was sent upon a mission of some 
sort through the South. While there he 
was stirred by the general condition of 
these states, lately in hostility to the 
federal government, and conceived the 
idea of a fraternal organization of farm- 
ers, North and South. He knew that 
the depressed condition of farmers was 
not confined to the. South alone. In the 
Middle West, though rickety barns 
were full of grain, the products were 
handled in a way which forced the 
farmers to destitution, while merchants 
surrounded themselves with luxuries. 
Concerning the South, it was said that 
the devastated farms bore crops of can- 
non balls instead of cotton balls. 

From Gettysburg to the Gulf, farms 
had borne crops of graves. Everywhere 
were grief and bitterness, and that a fra- 
ternal organization of farmers would 
promote a better feeling between North 
and South was the belief of Mr. Kelley. 
With six other men, most of whom 

were clerks in the government service 
at Washington, Kelley completed a 
well-devised organization based upon 
a ritual of four degrees. Resigning his 
position, he started on a journey to 
Minnesota. Aiming to work his way 
west, organizing granges, he succeeded 
in establishing at Fredonia, N. Y., the 
first grange outside of Washington. 
Struggling and hoping, meeting with 
far more reverses than successes, the 
indefatigable Kelley traversed the prai- 
ries of the Middle West. In the North 
Star State, his home, he was the most 
successful, and Minnesota, soon having 
sufficient subordinate granges, was the 
first state in which a state grange was 

The decade of the seventies was one 
of achievement. Texas and Montana, 
Maine and California, all the southern 
and middle-western states had state 
granges in 1875. It will doubtless sur- 
prise younger readers that the southern 
states, in the first years of the grange, 
had the bulk of membership, and that 
New England was the hardest to or- 

Having now taken a glance at the or- 
igin of the order, we may inquire into 
its objects — profit and pleasure and the 
improvement of farmers as a class. In 
the early days its purpose was largely 
to bring material benefits, such as prof- 
itable marketingand advantageous buy- 
ing; but now, while the grange is teach- 
ing the farmer to be a more successful 
farmer, as concerns the actual tilling of 
the fields, it is bringing, especially to 
remote sections, a broader and more 



charitable life. "In essentials unity ; in 
non-essentials liberty; in all things 
charity," is a motto familiar to Patrons 
of Husbandry. 

We find that members of granges are 
or have been organized to buy ma- 
chinery directly from the factories. 
Such business arrangements are local 
and too varied for enumeration. In 
New Eng- 
land, as a 
whole, the 
chief aims 
to-day are so- 
cial and edu- 
cational. The 
grange breaks 
up the monot- 
ony of the 
farm home, 
strengthens at- 
tachments and 
inspires t o a 
better man- 
hood and wom- 
an h o o d. In 
Maine, many 
granges own 
their own 
halls, b u t i n 
thickly settled 
districts, like 
a n d Southern 
New Hamp- 
shire, it is usu- 
ally better pol- 
icy to hire in- 
stead of to 

Although a 
secret order, 
we may be ad- 
mitted to some of its working princi- 
ples. The following is found in a report 
of the United States Department of Ag- 
riculture, 1882-83, and in its beauty and 
purity is much too good to lie unnoticed 
among the tomes of libraries : 

"Beginning as the humble laborer, 
who clears the forest, or digs the ditch, 
or prunes the vines, or turns the sod, 
a male applicant for membership is in- 

Rkv. Albert H. Wheelock, Marlboro, Mass. 
Chaplain of the State Grange 

structed that all honest labor is honor- 
able, and has the doctrine inculcated 
upon him that he must 'drive the very 
ploughshare of thought through the 
heavy soil of ignorance, and thus pre- 
pare the mind for the growth of knowl- 
edge and wisdom.' Advancing one de- 
gree, he becomes a Cultivator, when 
his moral nature is educated and re- 
ft n e d by re- 
peated assur- 
ances that he 
who intelli- 
gently culti- 
vates the 
growing plant 
is brought in- 
to close com- 
panion ship 
with his Cre- 
ator. 'As we 
see the beauti- 
f u 1 transfor- 
m a t i o n of 
seeds into at- 
tractive plants, 
we have but 
another lesson 
of the w o n- 
drous works 
of God; and if 
the beauties of 
t h i s w o r 1 d, 
when rightly 
viewed, offer 
so much of the 
of the Creator 
to charm us 
here, what 
must b e t h e 
sublime grand- 
eur of that 
Provide nee 
above ?' Nor do the lessons of encourage- 
ment cease when the Harvester is warned 
that he must reap for the mind as well 
as for the body, because nature has 
made nothing in vain. 'Wherever she 
has made a habitation she has filled it 
with inhabitants. On the leaves of 
plants animals feed, like cattle in our 
meadows, to whom the dewdrop is an 
ocean without a shore; the flowers are 



Ex-Governor Nahun J. Bachei,der, master of the 
National Grange 

the elysian fields, decorated with cas- 
cades and flowing with ambrosial fluids.' 
Hence, the Harvester's duty is to culti- 
vate an observing mind. 

"But he who harvests must not rest 
content until he has by lawful means 
attained to some ownership of the 
products of his own toil, and thus be- 
come a Husbandman, who, while he 
was passing practically through the 
hardships of a farmer's life, and has had 
them emblematically riveted upon his 
moral nature, has learned to look with 

careful solicitude upon children and 
encouraged in them a love of rural life 
by making its labors cheerful ; for what 
children see makes the most lasting im- 
pression on them. 'We may tell them 
of the pleasures and the independence 
of the farmer's life; but if their daily 
intercourse with us shows it to be te- 
dious, irksome and laborious, without 
any recreation of body or mind, they 
will soon lose all interest in it and seek 
employment elsewhere. We should 
therefore strive to make our homes 



Iv. H. Heai,ey, master Connecticut State Grange 

more attractive. We should adorn our 
grounds with those natural attractions 
which God has so profusely spread 
around us, and especially should we 
adorn the family circle with the noble 
traits of a kind disposition, fill its at- 
mosphere with affection, and thus in- 
duce children to love it.' 

"But the attractions of a farmer's 
life are not within the keeping of the 
Husbandman alone. It is not his ex- 
clusive prerogative to fashion and 
shape the character of those plastic 

youths who in the future are to wield 
the destiny of our country. It is the 
mother's influence that molds the child 
into noble manhood or bewitching 
womanhood. Therefore, the founders 
of the grange, reverently approving the 
Divine injunction that 'it is not good 
that the man should be alone,' intro- 
duced woman into the order; but in do- 
ing so they required her to enter as a 
Maid, whose station in the order in- 
volves the common and lowly duties 
preparatory to advancing to all that is 



Charges M. Gardner, master oE the Massachusetts State Grange 

most honorable and useful. As Shep- 
herdess she is admonished that it is her 
sacred duty to reclaim the wandering, 
as well as to keep in safety those in the 
fold, and, as Gleaner, to glean only the 
good seed, remembering 'that our as- 
sociations in life are the fields in which 
we reap.' Aud thus, when she reaches, 
through the successive degrees, the re- 
sponsible position of Matron, she is so- 
licited 'to wear garlands of noble deeds 
that shall adorn her life on earth and 
be crowns in immortality.' " 

About thirty-five millions of our 

ninety millions of people live upon 
farms — homes built upon a foundation 
which the first wave of adversity will 
not wash away. In the modern ten- 
dency toward urban concentration this 
solidity of the farm is no doubt often 
ignored; and many fail to see the nat- 
ural beauty of pleasant hillsides and 
pine woods as compared to stuffy shops 
and offices. It is very evident that the 
grange desires to keep the boys and 
girls upon the farms. Yet how many of 
the young and vigorous, fondly hoping 
that better pastures lie just beyond, are 



Clement F. Smith, master oi? the Vermont State Gra: 

rushing to the cities ! Given a glimpse 
of the city's changing excitement, the 
average farm boy is at once possessed 
with the idea that his lot is as hard as 
nails arid that glorious opportunities 
await him elsewhere. His dreams may 
come true and they may not. 

The army and the navy draw numer- 
ous recruits from the rural population. 
A few years at sea, with visits at for- 
eign ports or army service in the Phil- 
ippines, usually unfits the temperament 
of the young man, as far as any return 
to farm life is concerned. In the navy 

he may fire a big gun, a single dis- 
charge of which may cost as much as 
his father's farm is worth, or he may 
cruise around the world ; and these 
things tend to make the hills of his boy- 
hood seem small and all too quiet. 
These young farmers are a direct loss 
to agriculture. The grange, which 
came into being at the close of our Civil 
War, whispering peace, whispers that 
message to-day — peace and good-will 
upon earth. 

Robinson Crusoe, a famous sailor 
and afterward as famous an agricultur- 



ist, for a long time lived peaceably 
among his grapes and his goats ; yet, 
from one unlucky day when he discov- 
ered a human footprint upon the sand 
of his island, his mind was apprehen- 
sive. He worked overtime, planning 
and making fortifications; worked 
rather more at this than he did at agri- 

Wiixiam N. Howard, secretary oE the 
Massachusetts State Grange 

culture. The savage and the civilized 
life are the two extremes, yet nations 
seem to be doing much to-day as did 
Crusoe. AVhen we read that the armed 
peace of Europe since the Franco-Prus- 
sian war has cost nearly as much as the 
aggregate value of all the resources of 
the United States, the figures are so 
high that the mind cannot grasp them. 
Truly, if all humanity should "drive 
the ploughshare of thought through the 
heavy soil of ignorance," there would 
be no more conflict of arms. 

The grange wages no warfare against 
classes, nor against interests which are 
economically fair. It seeks the great- 
est good to the greatest number, and 

emphatically insists upon equity and 
fairness, protection for the weak, re- 
straint upon the strong. Its workers 
are among the foremost of our times, 
as witness C. F. Smith of Vermont, L. 
H. Healey of Connecticut, Gardner and 
Howard of the Massachusetts Legisla- 
ture and ex-Governor Bachelder of New 
Hampshire. These men have for years 
devoted much of their time in promot- 
ing the welfare of the grange ; and, not 
mentioned here, there are other New 
Englanders whose grange services have 
been as active and as sincere. 

Organized primarily for material 
benefits, the old idea of the grange was 
good as far as it went ; but in these 
later years there has been a wonderful 
awakening to the fact that the greatest 
products of the farm are not merely the 
bushels of corn. Growing manhood 
and womanhood are the farm's greatest 
products; hence, in many towns, we 
find a day set apart for juvenile feasts 
and frolics, and known as children's 

Nor is children's day the only one of 
the long year when children are lords 
and ladies of the hour. Who has lived 
in the country and not attended a 
grange picnic? For miles around they 
gather, not only Patrons of Husban- 
dry and their children, but friends and 
their children as well, often represent- 
ing several townships. The youngest 
romp and race till they are so tired that 
they come to mother for rest and quiet 
in some shady nook. Not so the older 
children ; this is a gala day and must 
be enjoyed to its full measure. A ball 
game, lunch under the trees, a little 
boating, perhaps, and then the sun is 
low in the west and all must hasten 

These days are remembered well by 
the youth of the grange; yet picnics, 
strawberry festivals and oyster suppers 
do not constitute the real social work 
of the order. The cordial grasp of the 
hand at every meeting, the disposition 
to help and love one another, are the 
truest tokens of fellowship. 

The work of the grange is of such a 
nature that its accomplishments can be 



cited in only a general way. We may 
state, approximately, how many dol- 
lars have been saved to the farmers of 
the country through co-operative trade 
arrangements and through mutual in- 
surance companies, both fire and life. 
Something definite may be stated in re- 
gard to wise legislation secured or un- 
wise legislation defeated through the 
efforts of the grange ; but to give an es- 
timate of what this order has accom- 
plished in the development of noble 
principles is impossible. To a great 
pyramid, with its foundation stones 
laid for the interests of a broad hu- 
manity and the burial of sectionalism, 
we may liken the influence of the 
grange. Tiers of stones, near the foun- 
dation, were laid in the interest of bar- 
ter; as the pyramid rises we might 
identify many stones. Through the 
grange the Department of Agriculture 
at Washington was raised to the dig- 
nity of other departments of the na- 
tional government, to be presided over 
by a Secretary of Agriculture in the 
President's Cabinet. Through the 
same influence agricultural and me- 
chanical colleges were established. 
The rural free delivery was largely the 
accomplishment of grange workers, 
for through intelligent presentation of 
the matter to Congress appropriations 

were secured. But in this figurative 
pyramid the bulk of the stones repre- 
sent the development of the highest 
enjoyments of the farmers' lives and 
the development of the heart. 

In the complex affairs of modern 
civilization little can be accomplished 
without organization of a far-reaching 
character. While life lasts we have 
our perplexities as well as our pleas- 
ures ; well may the farmer profit by 
joining the ranks of the Patrons of 
Husbandry. Though wagon roads, 
rivers and canals are a part of the 
transportation problem, the great rail- 
way systems hamper or make pros- 
perity; in the ruthless destruction of 
forests the farmer is injured through 
diminished rainfall ; taxation, with all 
its ramifications, is of vital importance 
— well may these subjects, and many 
more, be discussed by agriculturists. 

In the broad thought of the grange, 
all are tillers of the soil who try to do 
life's work well ; who endeavor, in some 
honest field of activity, to reap unto 
an abundant harvest. The grange 
stands, as a great educating force, for 
the making of more liberal, earnest and 
intelligent fellow-men and worthier sis- 
ters, ever seeking out and developing 
within its members that which is no- 
blest and best. 



The road to Chatham runs as straight as iF drawn by a rui,e 

The Maritime Provinces— II 


7^ HE road from Digby to Annapo- 
lis Royal is good, but the coun- 
try is hilly, and at times there is 
little room to spare to the edge of a 
drop of a hundred feet or more. 

The scenery continues beautiful, and 
several attractive villages are passed, 
with fertile farms and comfortable 
homesteads. Three rivers are crossed, 
Bear River, Moose River and Eequille. 
At the last the roofs of old Annapolis 
Royal begin to show up, and then the 
green slopes of its dismantled fortifi- 
cations, from, which we later watched 
the setting sun, merged into a thou- 
sand glories as it sank with lingering 
twilight into the golden west. 

The town itself is a sleepy old place, 
quite content apparently to rest upon 
its past laurels, and anyone familiar 
with the history of this quaint town 
can but admit it deserves the rest. It 
was for one hundred and fifty years a 
kind of football fought for by England 
and France. 

The French first pitched their tents 
here in August, 1605, but it was not 
until after 1643, when Sieur D'Aunay 
built the first fort, that the century and 
a half of bitter conflict commenced. 

The present fort has suffered ten 
regular sieges and three times has 
been captured. 

In 1710 it was taken by Nicholson, 
and since then it has been held by the 
English. It is no longer used as a fort, 
and for many years has been allowed 
to fall into a state of decay. Instead 
of five hundred to two thousand troops, 
Sergeant W. A. Daniel of the Canadian 
regulars, the caretaker, is the sole oc- 
cupant. This gentleman, the veteran 
of many years' standing in the English 
and Canadian service, is well posted 

and points out many interesting de- 

The officers' quarters within the fort 
quadrilateral is the only building which 
escaped the fire of 1831. It is very 
picturesque and artistic. In the ravelin 
that protects the west bastion are to 
be seen the remains of furnaces where 
shot was heated to be used against at- 
tacking ships. 

The old sallyport is interesting, as 
is the magazine in the south bastion, 
which was built by Subercase, in 1708, 
of stone brought from France by 
Bronillan six years before ; but perhaps 
of all, the prison in the west bastion is 
most interesting. It is a good illus- 
tration of the great hardships, priva- 
tion and torture which prisoners in 
olden days went through. 

We spent the night at the Queen 
Hotel, close by this fort with the mem- 
orable past, and if we did not dream of 
Argall, Wainwright, Nicholson and 
others, of battles and hardships, it was 
because one hundred and twenty-one 
miles for the first day was too tiring. 

We left Annapolis for Wolfville at 
eight thirty the next morning, a dis- 
tance of seventy-one miles, through 
the Annapolis Valley. The roads are 
excellent ; the weather was fine and the 
country through which we travelled 
has an almost international reputation 
for its scenery, and, with the motor 
working well, every one was happy. 

We met more horses than the day 
before, and they were more frightened. 
We made it a point to always stop the 
car, and, if necessary, the motor. In 
some cases one of the party would lead 
the horse by; but if the native saw us 
in time he would invariably turn into 
a field. No accidents occurred during 




the day, but there were narrow escapes 
innumerable, and we were cursed out 
pretty thoroughly and some of the. re- 
marks were laughable. 

Two elderly women passed us, dis- 
daining an offer of assistance. The 
horse, after a few preliminary side 
steps, made a bolt and circled out 
around the machine, the off wheels of 
the carriage bouncing in and out of a 
six-inch ditch in rapid succession. 
"Rotten old thing!" was the ejacula- 
tion of one of the women, and "rotten 
old things" is just what most of the 
"Blue Noses" think of motor cars. 

We passed Bridgetown at nine 
thirty, a distance of sixteen miles from 
Annapolis, and as we proceeded toward 
Middleton we were surprised at the 
number of colored people. From this 
point to Halifax many farms culti- 
vated by negroes exist, and we were 
told that they are the descendants of 
negroes who escaped from the South 
before and during the Civil War via 
the underground railroad. 

Middleton was reached at ten thirty, 
and practically the entire population 
of the town turned out to see the car, 
and we left sooner than intended, to es- 
cape the rapid-fire of foolish questions. 

Beyond the town the roads became 
very sandy, and for ten to twelve miles 
are as bad as Cape Cod (Massachu- 
setts) roads in olden days. The road 
branches out into a series of six or 
seven parallel lanes, covering half an 
acre. For miles there are no fences, 
and the country has the appearance of 
a western prairie, minus the cactus 
plant. After Auburn is reached the 
road again becomes good. 

We arrived at Kentville at twelve 
forty-five, sixty miles from Annapolis, 
and after lunch at the "Aberdeen" we 
ran out to Aldershot, two miles away, 
where the big military camp is held 
each summer. At the time only one 
regiment of cavalry and one of infan- 
try were in camp. We were cordially 
entertained by a captain in the regular 
service, who was detailed as an in- 
structor, in spite of the fact that the 
colonel, to whom we had a letter, was 
out of town. 

At three o'clock we left for Wolf- 
ville and arrived in time to witness a 
game of English Rugby at Acadia 
University. To an American who has 
played football, Rugby is very strange. 
Fifteen men, instead of eleven, and 
more like a game of association or of 
basket-ball than football. It seems, 
however, fully as rough a game, and 
the men wear much less protection. 
We put up at the Royal Hotel. Every- 
thing in Canada in the way of hotels 
is the "Royal," "The Queen's" or the 
"King's," with an occasional Victoria 
or Prince George. We found the ac- 
commodations rather poor; the name 
of boarding house w<3uld have better 
suited it. The town itself was inter- 
esting. Besides the university, there 
are several preparatory schools and a 
number of smart-looking shops which 
cater for the student trade. 

Wolfville is built upon the site of an 
old Acadian town, and contains many 
relics of these unfortunate people. 
About the town cluster points of 
beauty and places of historical inter- 
est. To the west is clearly defined 
Cape Blomidon, which terminates the 
great North Mountain. To the south 
is the valley of Gaspereau, while to 
the east are the broad fields of Grand 
Pre and Minas Basin, where a race of 
people were finally gathered, to be 
banished from the country they had 
inhabited for one hundred and fifty 
years. The stories of the expulsion of 
the Acadians are somewhat contradic- 
tory, especially as told by the present 
inhabitants of this part of Nova Scotia, 
and the unsuspecting tourist has many 
purely fictitious tales told to him. 

It was in 1605 that the French first 
settled in Acadia, which then belonged 
to France. When Nicholson captured 
Annapolis Royal, in 1710, it became a 
possession of England. The Acadians 
continued to live prosperous and happy 
lives under English rule until 1775, when 
they were accused of being unloyal to 
.he King,because,being of French birth, 
they refused to take the oath without 
restrictions, and were forced from their 
homes by Colonel Winslow and his 
regiment, acting on orders from Gov- 




ernor Lawrence at Halifax, and de- 
ported to various places along the At- 
lantic coast. Their lands left deso- 
late, their habitation and buildings 
burned to make it impossible for them 
to return, and the fruits of their years 
of toil and industry left to other people. 
At the time of their expulsion there 
were about seven thousand Acadians 
in the province, scattered among some 
thirty villages. About six thousand 
were deported; of the one thousand 
who escaped into the woods and joined 

There were the French willows, a long 
line of them on either side of the lane 
up which we rode. There were the old 
French well, and the depression in the 
earth where the Acadian Church stood, 
and the great meadows taken from the 
sea; but what a disappointment, after 
all we had heard about the beautiful 
land of Evangeline. There were to be 
seen no "forests primeval," and "the 
murmuring pines and hemlocks" were 
not to be heard. Instead, it was a low 
marsh, and but for its history and Long- 

l I 

The Crucifix appears at intervals throughout New Brunswick 

the Indians, many were afterwards 
taken and sent out of the peninsula. 

^ In the morning we left Wolfville at 
eight thirty and ran to Grand Pre, four 
miles away, stopping at the Old Cov- 
enanter Church, begun in 1804 and 
completed in 1818. This church is in a 
bad state of decay, and has no especial 
historic value, but is a curiosity and is 
worth seeing. 

At last we were at Grand Pre, the 
home of Longfellow's "Evangeline." 

fellow's beautiful poem, which throw 
a romantic glamor over the place, it 
would be positively uninteresting. Time 
and the elements are rapidly obliterat- 
ing all traces of the Acadians. But a 
movement has been started to create a 
commemorative park of permanent 
character. The idea is to restore the 
church, the priest's house, the well and 
the cemetery, and to erect a monument 
close by to Longfellow, incorporating 
a statue of the poet himself. The prov- 



ince can surely well afford to do this, 
as his beautiful poem is certainly worth 
at least ten thousand dollars a year to 
the country. It is an interesting fact 
not generally known that Longfellow 
had never visited Nova Scotia when he 
wrote "Evangeline" in 1847. 

From Grand Pre to Windsor we 
easily made twenty miles an hour, as 
the roads were good. At first Cape 
Blomidon, fifteen miles away, stood 
out prominently across the blue water 
of Minas Basin, and reminded one of 
the great cliffs at Dover, and might 
easily be taken for them but for the 

Halifax it is six feet, while at Yar- 
mouth sixteen is the average, Digby 
twenty-seven, Parrsborough fifty-three, 
while at the mouth of the Shubenaca- 
die River it attains the extraordinary 
elevation of seventy feet, the highest 
in the world. 

Windsor is the home of the famous 
old King's College, on whose rolls are 
names illustrious in Canada and im- 
perial history, and the only fault the 
writer has to find with the town is for 
the fact that she has allowed the at- 
tendance of this aristocratic old college 
to run down until it has scarcely 

The oud Covenanter church, built in 1804 

fact that the geological formation is red 
"boulder clay," instead of white chalk. 

We reached Windsor at eleven 
o'clock, and found it the brightest, most 
up-to-date and at the same time inter- 
esting place we had seen. The tide 
was out and for the first time we saw 
a harbor without water, vessels resting 
high and dry on land, perched on mud 
flats twenty feet above the channel. 
Nowhere else but in the Bay of Fundy 
could this picture be reproduced. 

At Windsor the tide has a rise of 
thirty-five feet, and on the coast at 

enough students to pay to run. Among 
the other places of interest is the "Sam 
Slick" house, the home of Judge Hali- 
burton, often referred to as the father 
of Canadian literature, and Fort Ed- 
ward, nearly one hundred and sixty 
years old. The town has other places 
of interest, and, with its golf links and 
the beautiful nearby drives, is an ideal 
place for a summer vacation. 

From Windsor to Halifax we fol- 
lowed the Great Western postal road 
over Mt. Uniacke, first built between 
the French settlement of Port Royal 



and Grand Pre, and extended to Wind- 
sor and then to Halifax, upon Gov- 
ernor Cornwallis' arrival, as he de- 
pended upon French settlers for his 

In 1816 the first stagecoach made the 
trip from Halifax to Windsor twice a 
week, and the round trip fare was $12. 
We made it in three hours, but it took 
more than twelve dollars out of the 
machine. A worse road cannot be im- 
agined after the summit of Mount Uni- 
acke is passed. The ride up the moun- 
tain side is beautiful. It is a steady, 
steep climb for three miles, very wild, 
with now and then a farm, with a tre- 
mendous flock of geese never failing to 
amuse us, as their every movement 
was systematic. A well-drilled body of 
soldiers could not have executed move- 
ments better. First it was columns 
of four, then by the left flank and 
about face, perfect alignment with 
heads up, and as we passed all flapped 
their wings and screamed in unison. 
Great herds of sheep, with an occa- 
sional black one bringing to mind Will 
Carlton's "The one black sheep of his 
father's fold," grazed in the open coun- 
try. As we rapidly ascended the moun- 
tain, with its perfectly good road, we 
little realized the mess which awaited 
us on the other side. It commenced 
with a few ledges and then a series of 
bog holes and places we had to fill up 
with rails and tree trunks. Repeatedly 
rocks had to be rolled out of the way 
to allow the car to pass. For ten miles 
there were quagmires and ledges, and 
it is remarkable that we at last got 
through. After we had once more got- 
ten on a good road, but a very narrow 
one, which lay along the side of the 
mountain, we came face to face with a 
four-horse load of dynamite on its way 
to a quarry near by. It was a very 
embarrassing position,- but as the 
horses were not frightened we were 
able to back the car some distance to 
where the road permitted us to turn 

We reached Halifax at three o'clock, 
after a run of sixty-five miles for the 
day, the last ten being over a fine 

stretch of road skirting the Bedford 
Basin. At times the road fairly hung 
over the water. 

The two best hotels are the Halifax 
and the Queens. After riding past 
both we decided that the Queens was 
the better. Both are old, but quite a 
sum of money has recently been ex- 
pended in remodelling the latter. 

Halifax is the capital of Nova Scotia 
and the largest city in the Maritime 
Provinces. It impresses one as being 
much larger than it really is. Although 
it is the objective point for thousands 
of American tourists, it is very English 
in many ways, probably because it has 
so long been a garrison town, being 
the chief British military and naval 
station in America, and because its 
commercial relations have been so in- 
timate with England. 

We spent the remainder of the after- 
noon in going over our mail, which had 
been forwarded to the general delivery, 
and in equipping ourselves with swag- 
ger sticks and other souvenirs typical 
of the place and its people. We also 
took a short trip about the city and 
outlying districts in the car. As in the 
smaller places we had visited, the ma- 
chine attracted attention, and we found 
out later that it had pretty thoroughly 
advertised our arrival. In the evening 
we visited a vaudeville theatre, the bill 
including, as our program asked us to 
believe, "Jim" somebody, or rather the 
funniest man in the world; the Messer 
Sisters, having the reputation of the 
best act in vaudeville; Miss Winnie 
Vincent, the mocking bird, and so it 
went. Everything was bigger and bet- 
ter than ever before. 

The next morning friends of friends 
of our party arrived at the hotel with 
the keys of the city, and for two days 
and most of two nights we were on the 
jump. If anything was missed, we 
were perfectly willing to leave it to 
others when we departed on Sunday 
morning. The pace which Halifax 
hospitality sets would make the most 
hardened New Yorker seek a sanato- 
rium. Clubs, theatres, dinners, yacht 
races and hodge podges, if the reader 


The Penobsouis Vaeeey, a dangerous peace to travee at night 

knows what they are, in rapid succes- 
sion, until it would make even the most 
blase "sit up and take notice." We 
started out in a very quiet, matter-of- 
fact way by visiting the government 
building ; were shown the Legislative 
Hall and even sat in the speaker's 
chair. Next came the Natural History 
Museum and the Dominion building; 
then the Government House and a very 
old and intensely interesting Episcopal 
Church ; after this the City Hall, where 
we met many city officials ; in fact, all 
along our way we were introduced. 
With the addition of the police com- 
missioner to our party we were taken 
through the Public Gardens, consisting 
of fourteen acres of trees, flowers, 
fountains, lakes and cool and shady 
walks, equalling, in proportion to its 
size, the best parks in the largest cities 
of America and Europe. 

We next found ourselves on the 
water front inspecting dry docks and 
marine railways, and going through 
great ship chandlery warehouses. To 
the person interested in these things 
nautical Halifax is the place" to go: 
steamers arriving and departing at all 
hours of the day and night, and every- 
thing from a ferryboat to a warship 
or a fishing smack to a fine yacht. 

Soon we were being shot down the 
harbor in a motor boat, around the 
point and up the Northwest Arm, to 
a bungalow, for lunch ; back to the city 
again; more sights; then to one of the 
clubs for tea, or Scotch and soda, as 
you preferred. After this there was a 
dinner somewhere and a theatre party, 
and the management extended an in- 
vitation for us to come behind the 
scenes. The cafes are closed at ten 
to the stranger, but as guests of the 
first citizens nothing was closed. It 
is very simple; a bell is rung, up goes 
a slide like that in lodge doors ; a magic 
word is spoken ; back come bolts and 
bars, a rattle of chains, and the door is 

All day Saturday this cyclone of hos- 
pitality continued. We visited friends 
at the Wellington Barracks and 
climbed to the Citadel, which is built 
upon the top of a hill two hundred and 
fifty feet above the harbor. The forti- 
fications were commenced by the Duke 
of Kent in 1800, and a mint of money 
has been spent on alterations and im- 
provements since ; but in spite of this 
they are now obsolete. Of course, the 
view from the Citadel is the finest to 
be had of the city and surrounding 
country. To the west is what is known 



as the Northwest Arm, a body of water 
three miles long by a quarter of a mile 
in width, which, with the harbor, out- 
lines the rocky peninsula on which the 
city is located. To the south and east 
is the harbor, which narrows as it 
reaches the upper end of the city and 
extends into the Bedford Basin, with 
its ten miles of safe anchorage, being 
navigable its whole distance. Directly 
across the harbor may be seen the 
town of Dartmouth, while in the har- 
bor are two fortified islands, George's 
Island, near the city, and McNab's 
Island, at the entrance, three miles 
away. We were told that a thousand 
ships could safely anchor in the har- 
bor, which we believed. We were also 
told that the hill upon which we stood 
was built by hand, and that an under- 
ground passage connected George's 
Island with the mainland, which we 
did not believe. 

The one o'clock gun interrupted a 
sight which, once seen on a clear day, 
will not be forgotten, and which can 
never be word-painted. At three 
o'clock we were at the Royal Nova 
Scotia Yacht Club, the leading club 
of its kind in Canada, finely located 
and beautifully appointed and full of 
trophies and souvenirs, which recalled 
the pleasant exchange of courtesies 
with clubs like the New York Yacht 

Club and the Eastern and Corinthian 
of Massachusetts. 

The final race of the season was to 
start at three thirty, and the club, its 
grounds and its floats were, figura- 
tively speaking, alive. We were in- 
vited to sail on one of the boats, the 
"Nomad," but refused, as we knew 
we would be a handicap ; but our hosts 
insisted and we went. The race started 
on time and the squadron ran to Leop- 
ards Rocks, then to Ives Knoll and then 
out to the entrance of the harbor, each 
boat having to jibe on this leg, and after 
coming about the stake a reef had to 
be taken in the mainsail — no easy task 
in a piping wind — while the boats 
made for McNab's Cove, anchored, 
furled sails, and then at a given signal 
made sail and proceeded to moorings 
of the. club. Our boat took second 
honors, and it is hard to say who was 
more pleased — the owner or ourselves. 

The race itself was very different 
from our conventional American races. 
In the evening the band played; there 
were songs, vaudeville and good things 
to eat, and everybody was happy. 

The customary crowd whfch col- 
lected about our machine was missing 
the next morning when we left the 
hotel at ten o'clock. The paradox is 
this : it was Sunday and the streets 
were deserted. Across the harbor we 

The Miramichi river, a gateway to the great eorests oe New Brunswick 



navigated in a ferryboat that just per- 
mitted us to run aboard, and when the 
Dartmouth shore was reached a run- 
way had to be improvised to get us 
ashore, as the weight of the car 
had sunk the bow about eighteen 

The first twenty miles of our trip 
was very fine. The road skirts the 
Dartmouth Lakes, Lake Fletcher and 
Grand Lake, and is good; but after 
Wellington is passed it becomes poor, 
and in places is very rough and hardly 
more than a wood road. The country 
is wild and partridges and wild ani- 
mals of various kinds were frequently 
seen. Once an eagle with a three-foot 
snake clutched in its claws flew over 
our heads. This rough and wild 
stretch of country may be avoided and 
a better road found if the tourist will 
swing to the east just beyond Waverly 
and run to Musquodobit, and then 
turn and run due north, following the 
Gay River. The trip this way is a 
little over twenty miles farther. 

We reached Elmsdale, a little vil- 
lage of two or three stores, and an 
adorable inn (which really had no ex- 
cuse for its existence in such an out- 
of-the-way place), at one o'clock, hav- 
ing only made thirty-six miles, which 
made it look rather doubtful if Truro 
could be reached before dark. We 
stopped here for lunch, which, barring 
none, seemed the best meal during our 
entire trip, and long did we remember 
the griddled chicken and the pumpkin 
pie. At two o'clock we were again on 
the road, which improved from here 
on, and we made good time, passing 
the St. Andrew's River, Stewiacke, 
Alton and Brookfield without incident, 
and would have reached our destina- 
tion by five o'clock but for several un- 
expected delays. First it was a barn 
which was being moved and had been 
left planted squarely in the road. The 
detour about it which we had to make 
was much more serious than it sounds. 
Then a strip of road some two hun- 
dred yards, with sharp, ugly rocks, over 
which no tire would survive a trip, and, 
finally, two miles from Truro, there was 

that familiar and sickening sound as 
of a pistol report and the accompany- 
ing hiss of escaping air. It was our first 
blow-out and it used up thirty minutes, 
and, to make matters worse, it hap- 
pened where there was a three-foot 
ditch on either side, with just enough 
room for a team to pass, but with no 
leeway for a nervous horse. Four 
teams tried to pass, then went over the 
edge and were upset. The horse of 
the fourth, instead of going by, tried 
to climb a telegraph pole, and upon 
our advice the owner waited for the 
repairs to be finished. 

We entered Truro, or rather sneaked 
in, on a back street, more than half- 
expecting to spend the night in the 
police station. It was Sunday and the 
sun was not yet set, and we concluded 
the police could not make an arrest. 

The place was absolutely dead. Our 
hotel was near the railroad station, and 
we were told that it was the lead- 
ing hotel. It was the worst place 
called a hotel we encountered on our 
trip, and when we later read in a rail- 
road guide book that one of the evi- 
dences that Truro was a live town was 
found in the excellency of the leading 
hotels, we got a pretty poor opinion 
of Truro. 

All day Sunday everything is shut 
up tight, but at seven o'clock the stores 
opened and the freight cars began to 
be shunted about the side tracks. A 
case of sleep all day and lie awake at 

The one redeeming feature of Truro 
— and this feature wholly apart from 
the surroundings of the natives — is the 
beautiful natural park, with its pic- 
turesque gorge, its wooded, wild hills, 
its cascade pouring over a barrier of 
rocks fifty feet high above the pool 
which the waters form at its base 
God gave Truro a fine park, and when 
she tries to improve it the town will 
be something more than an uninterest- 
ing railroad junction. 

We delayed our start the next morn- 
ing, as we learned that Commander 
Peary was to pass through on his way 
from Sydney to Boston. We also had 



the satisfaction of watching Lord 
Strathcona's (Canada's high commis- 
sioner) private car and special train fly- 
past, en route from Montreal to Hali- 

The day was fine, as all the days had 
been. The run was to Amherst, and, 
if conditions warranted it, we were to 
push on to Shediac, one hundred and 
thirty-six miles. As the most direct 
road was reported very rough, being 
through mountainous country, we took 
the road which skirted Cobequid Bay 
and Minas Basin to Parrsborough. We 
passed Bass River at eleven thirty, 
twenty-nine miles from Truro, when 
unfortunately we ran over and killed 
a fine collie dog. All along our trip 
we had been bothered by dogs, who 
insisted upon running in front of the 
car; but, as they always managed to 
get out of the way, we had stopped 

All through the morning the scenery 
was superb, and a fine view of the 
water was constantly before us. Just 
beyond Little Bass River a very steep 
hill was encountered, which would 
prove a Waterloo for anything but a 
high-power car. It is a mile long and 
very rough in places. A wonderful 
view of Five Islands, with Cape Blomi- 
don, across the channel in the distance, 
presents itself when once the top is 

The Five Islands are as strange a 
geological formation as is to be found 
in this country. They rise out of the 
water at intervals of a few hundred 
yards and tower a hundred feet or 
more in the air; the sides are perpen- 
dicular and on top of these strange 
formation of rock is a heavy growth 
of spruce trees. 

We reached Parrsborough, which, 
although it appears in black type on 
the map, is but a small village fifty- 
seven miles from Truro, at two o'clock. 
After lunch at a boarding house called 
the Grand Central Hotel, we started 
for Amherst, the road lying at almost 
right angles to the one we had followed 
during the morning. The culverts 
were especially bad on this run, and, 

besides giving an auto and its occu- 
pants pretty severe jounces, there is 
great danger of breaking through. 
Later on our trip we broke through 
several, but with no serious results. 

At a little after five we passed Mac- 
can and the Chignecto coal mines. The 
miners were out on a strike and the dis- 
trict was under a state of semi-martial 

Amherst was reached before six 
o'clock. It was getting dark, however, 
and as the town looked pretty attrac- 
tive to us, after ninety-one miles over 
rough roads, we put up for the night. 
We found Amherst one of the most 
progressive and substantial towns in 
the provinces. It has eight thousand 
people, and evidences of prosperity are 
on every hand. There are fine public 
buildings, large manufacturing indus- 
tries, and as attractive a club as any 
city of one hundred thousand could 

We went to the theatre in the even- 
ing, and upon our return to the hotel 
asked a native if they often had as good 
a performance, to which the enthusias- 
tic individual somewhat ambiguously 
replied: "Why, yes; once a week, 
twice a month, for four or five days." 

As we found ourselves a little be- 
hind schedule time, arrangements were 
made for an early breakfast, with the 
idea of making Chatham, one hundred 
and thirty miles away, the next day. 
We arose at daybreak and were ready 
to start long before the other guests at 
the hotel began to appear, but the car 
did not arrive. The magneto was not 
working and the batteries had gotten 
short-circuited in some way. If we had 
not known where John, our chauffeur, 
had been every minute the night be- 
fore, we surely would have accused 
him of going "joy" riding. Instead of 
seven, it was eight thirty when we de- 
parted. We ran perhaps two miles, 
when one of the party stated that he 
had left a camera in his room at the 
hotel. Back we went and waited. In 
ten minutes he appeared, with a sheep- 
ish, ashamed look on his face, and in 
reply to a round of rather sarcastic 



remarks admitted that he remembered 
packing it in his case. The second start 
was made after nine o'clock, and it is 
doubtful if we would have put back 
again even if a member of the party 
was missing. 

In twenty minutes we were at Fort 
Lawrence and had crossed the boun- 
dary line into New Brunswick. For 
ten miles the road runs over low, flat, 
reclaimed land, closely resembling a 
western prairie, with hundreds of 

institutions, among them the Univer- 
sity of Mount Allison College, the 
Academy and Commercial College, the 
Ladies' College and the Owens Insti- 
tute and Conservatory of Music. We 
passed through the town so quickly 
that we left it on the wrong road, and 
did not discover our mistake until we 
had gone four miles. Back we went to 
the town and out on the right way. 
Sign-posts are an unheard-of thing in 
the provinces, and even the informa- 

We brought up on a marsh mii/es From anywhere 

barns, all the same size and kind of 
architecture, about the same distance 
apart, which, from an aeroplane, must 
appear like a gigantic checker-board. 

These thousands of acres of verdant 
marsh meadows around the head of the 
Bay of Fundy have been a rich heritage 
to the people, and have resulted in the 
raising of some of the finest cattle in 
the eastern part of America. 

The road to Sackville is fairly good, 
but showed signs of being practically 
impassable in wet weather. Sackville 
is made up of Methodist educational 

tion the natives furnish is rather unre- 
liable. As incredible as it may seem, 
individuals were found in the back- 
wood roads who actually did not know 
where the road on which they lived 
led to. An experience of this kind 
happened after we left Sackville for 
Dorchester. We again in some way 
got off the main road and stopped at a 
log cabin to inquire the way. The 
woman who appeared at the door 
stated that she thought the road led to 
Dorchester, but did not know. In an- 
swer to our questions she said that she 



had spent most of her life in the vi- 
cinity. We took a chance and pushed 
on, and at the first cross-road were 
held up by two armed prison wardens. 
It turned out that a prisoner had es- 
caped from the penitentiary in Dor- 
chester, and the country for miles was 
covered by guards to cut off his escape. 
The wardens put us on the right track 
again and we reached Dorchester at 
eleven o'clock, and once more found 
our location on the map we carried. 

As we entered the town a dog ran 
barking after us. Soon he was joined 
by two more, and the noise they made 
attracted others. It seemed as if every 
dog in town immediately put in an ap- 
pearance. There were black dogs and 
brown dogs, yellow ones and a white 
one, collies, bulls, St. Bernards and 
mongrels — at least fifteen in all — and 
such a noise as old Noah himself never 
heard.- At the first chance we let the 
car out into a thirty-mile clip, and our 
carniverous, four-legged friends, fight- 
ing among themselves, were lost in a 
cloud of dust. 

The road from Dorchester to Mem- 
ramcook is good, but from the latter 
to Meadow Brook it is a rough road, 
through wild country, with long 
stretches of nerve-racking corduroy 
road. At one point we came upon a 
load of hay, which completely filled 
the narrow way, and we were obliged 
to slowly follow it for a mile before 
there was an opportunity to pass. 

We crossed the Seadone River at 
eleven thirty and ran out to Shediac 
and Point du Chene, getting our first 
view of Northumberland Strait. In 
the hazy distance we could make out 
the coast line of Prince Edward Island.' 

It was noon and we had covered 
only forty-five miles of our one hun- 
dred and thirty, so off we started again, 
skirting Shediac Harbor and heading 
through Cocagne and Gaily, over the 
Metadawoden River, to Buctouche. 
The houses we passed, if painted at all, 
were white, with red blinds and trim- 
mings. There were many small vil- 

lages; but, no matter how small the 
place, it always contained an enormous 
Catholic Church, painted like the 
houses — white and red. These churches 
were out of all proportion to the size 
of the town, and it was a constant 
source of wonder where the money to 
build and maintain these came from. 

Buctouche was just half-way to 
Chatham, and here we stopped for 
lunch at a tavern called the Victoria. 
As we prepared to start away the land- 
lady came to the door to say "Bon 
soir" ; the stablemen stood and stared; 
two women washing clothes at the side 
of the door stopped their work, and a 
lot of funny-looking natives buzzed 
around, gesticulating in French-Cana- 
dian and trying to explain the mechan- 
ism of the car to each other. We lit 
our cigars and leaned back in a self- 
satisfied way. We had become so 
hardened to the stares of these little 
crowds that always assembled at our 
departure that we no longer noticed 
them. It was usually a case of one 
turn of the handle, the motor started 
and off we would go, with a nod to the 
natives. Not so this time, and we sat 
for twenty minutes while John cranked, 
examined different parts and swore al- 
ternately. First the mixture seemed 
too strong, and there was a back fire; 
then the batteries seemed to have got- 
ten short-circuited, and then some other 
cause was suggested, until it looked as 
if Chatham would never be reached. It 
was two o'clock when we finally moved 
away and the car was limping badly. 
We could get no power and had to take 
the hills on the first speed, while as a 
rule most of them were taken on the 

As we rolled along the long stretches 
of forest road, miles from any kind of 
habitation, the engine would occasion- 
ally skip, sending visions of a night out 
in the open flashing through our 
minds ; but as the magneto got warmed 
up the engine commenced to work bet- 
ter, and when Richibucto was reached 
we had plenty of power. 

(To be continued) 

The Crowded Hours of the 
College Girl 


THE play-spirit of the American 
child is left over in the Ameri- 
can college girl ; it delights in 
college organizations, in class affairs, 
in college functions. But to the play- 
spirit of the college girl — far more than 
in the case of the college boy — has been 
added a sense of responsibility and so- 
ber self-importance. She makes and 
fulfils innumerable petty engagements 
with which a boy would not be both- 
ered. Her receptions, "spreads/' so- 
ciety meetings, church and prayer 
meetings, Bible classes, Y. W. C. A., 
student government, college settle- 
ment, athletic meet, musical clubs, 
choir, shopping, dances and games at a 
neighboring college, all become a part 
of her "schedule." Before she knows 
it she has an ordered system of crowd- 
ing that would burden the shoulders 
of well-seasoned, overworked royalty. 
But she takes the crowding with noble 
fortitude, meets every engagement, ac- 
cepts every invitation, goes to every- 
thing she is expected to go to — her par- 
ents have brought her up well, poor 
child — and she reads fifteen minutes a 
day, as she herself will tell you, for 
"pure enjoyment" — pure enjoyment a 
little interrupted, however, by glancing 
every five minutes at the clock to be 
sure that she is not over-reading. 

This average American college girl, 
with her bursting schedule and dis- 
tended conscience, is an intelligent, 
well-set-up, independent, resourceful 
human being. She is not a student per 
se; she averages about thirty-six hours 
a week on all the so-called academic or 
intellectual work of the college; she 
sleeps during the week some fifty- six 

hours, and spends the remaining seven- 
ty-six in dressing, eating, religious, ex- 
ecutive and social engagements, and in 
exercise. She does not over-eat, over- 
exercise or spend too much time in 
dressing; it would be far better for her 
if she spent much more time than she 
does on both toilet and exercise. Where 
she places the stress is upon her execu- 
tive and social engagements, and of 
these two more emphasis is placed 
upon the executive work. One of my 
own students candidly confessed that 
in the week she had spent twenty-two 
hours and ten minutes in executive 
work alone; another fifteen hours in 
society work; another fifteen hours in 
extension work. These are, of course, 
instances of an extravagant use of time, 
yet they are not at all uncommon. Out 
of a class of eighty-eight juniors and 
seniors doing elective literary work, 
seventy-eight students were carrying 
executive work. From that same class 
thirteen students spent between seven 
and fourteen hours each, and there 
were twenty students who spent be- 
tween five and six hours apiece a week. 
The highest expenditure of time so- 
cially that I found in the entire class 
was ten and one-half hours. Where 
her energy goes is plain to be seen ; 
she is organized to death. One student 
planned out her week Sunday evening. 
Monday morning, with the frailty ever 
attendant upon human nature, she 
overslept, and, late, with difficulty got 
to breakfast. Thereby she upset her 
calculated plans by one half-hour. At 
the close of the week she was still run- 
ning rapidly after herself trying to 
overtake the lost half-hour. 



Despite the emphasis on the execu- 
tive side, the social life presents its 
problems. Socially, the American col- 
lege is a somewhat crowded whole. 
There is an effort on the part of the 
students to know everyone; students 
are heard to remark that it is their duty 
to know as many people as possible. 
This ominum gatherum attitude, which 
has in it something of the political 
demagogue, is not socially the highest. 
Perhaps, rather, their real duty lies in 
an essential relation to the people with 
whom they naturally come in contact. 
Then, too, there is the mistake of think- 
ing that a social engagement consti- 
tutes social life: the crush and mad 
chatter of a crowded afternoon tea. or 
shooting comet-like down a line of dig- 
nitaries at a big reception. This is only 
the way academic society, too, gets 
credit, pays its monthly bills and man- 
ages to have its I O U's torn up. From 
that vital social life which has nothing 
to do with the commerce of society the 
college student might well take more 
pleasure than she does. 

The condition of a man's life is cer- 
tainty; the condition of this girl's life 
uncertainty. Perhaps she will marry; 
perhaps she will stay at home; perhaps 
she will teach — if she must. In paren- 
tal minds probably most of the vague- 
ness about the exact purpose of college 
life for a girl is due to the conviction 
that a woman's economic value is 
bringing children into the world. In 
the girl's own consciousness marriage 
is present ; but she does not under nor- 
mal conditions think much about it; 
however, she realizes that when it does 
come it will make a difference in her 
work. All the while a man is constantly 
expecting both to work and to marry. 
This instability of purpose on the part 
of the woman inevitably affects her at- 
titude towards her work. She is intelli- 
gent and realizes quickly that the pur- 
pose of sending girls to college nowa- 
days is so much unthought out that 
people cannot agree on what they think 
the end of that education really to be. 
Some girls come to college because of 
the pressure from home or friends ; 
some because it is a "fad"; some for 

vague, general reasons, and the minor- 
ity for a definite purpose. 

There is no ground for assuming, as 
some older people do, that students are 
satisfied with the present crowded con- 
ditions, and that they do not desire 
something else quite as much as those 
who are wiser. There should be, and 
I really think there is, perfect identity 
of interest between faculty and stu- 
dents. The dissatisfaction with the 
crowded life is mutual, but the desire 
of the faculty is, on the whole, towards 
the development of a more intellectual 
spirit. They see that students are ad- 
mirably interested in "college life," 
without any corresponding admirable 
interest in work ; that "college life" has 
come to mean to the average student 
something separable from work; that 
there is not the organic relation be- 
tween the two which there should be. 
They know that the requirements of 
the best women's colleges are sufficient 
to make colleges, and that the attitude 
of the students often tends to make ele- 
mentary schools of higher institutions. 
They know, too, whether they will ad- 
mit it or not, that the ordinary curricu- 
lum deprives the conscientious girl of 
many opportunities she ought to have : 
abundance of good plays, good music 
and leisure for the best literature. They 
add their quota of influence to the 
damaging advice of certain educators 
for students to read fifteen minutes 
from some masterpiece. Fifteen min- 
utes ! As if human nature could be di- 
vided and subdivided indefinitely in its 
functions like some machine and set 
going by the pressure of a button. 
Such a thought ought to make every 
"pure enjoyment," every vital feeling, 
every literary or artistic sense run cold. 
Fifteen minutes, with the clock ticking 
you in the face ! 

The unspoken question in the minds 
of many college instructors is this: // 
the college curriculum presupposed a cer- 
tain amount of leisure' and kept the atmos- 
phere of an academic body valuing leisure, 
would the student then turn to an in- 
terest in letters, or would she increase her 
executive and social duties ? Uncertain of 
the issue, the college deliberately raises 



its requirements as a safeguard for the 
intellectual life. The instructor feels, 
too, that any deviation from the nor- 
mal way of living implies some par- 
ticular purpose, some particular end in 
view. The home is the only normal 
human center; from the human point 
of view, the college can never be more 
than a makeshift. There may be some 
people so institutionalized, so accus- 
tomed to the crowded make up of a 
college dormitory, an evil further in- 
creased by many "gang" habits, that 
they cannot realize this. To repeat, 
the college instructor, forced to live an 
institutional life, is as convinced as any 
observer from the outside that this is a 
deviation from the normal way of liv- 
ing, and must, therefore, imply some 
particular purpose. That purpose he 
believes to be largely intellectual. 

On the other hand, the desire of the 
students is towards — well, they hardly 
know — freedom, perhaps, first of all ; 
release from nervous tension. They 
feel the crowded hours in various ways. 
Not any of them would have the cour- 
age to be found with empty hands, 
merely thinking. They would hurry to 
pick up a book or a paper, or to stir 
about their rooms as if busy. And yet 
the overwhelming majority long for 
changed conditions. They find it im- 
possible to take things in a leisurely 
way. "It is necessary," says one stu- 
dent, "to jump from one thing to an- 
other, without doing entire justice to 
any one thing." They want time for 
rest, for thinking, for quiet reading. 
There is so much feverish rushing that' 
some time every day to be spent un- 
constrained in idleness, or doing some- 
thing unrelated to a class-room, or to 
an engagement, would seem almost too 
good to be true. Yet, in part, thev are 
the makers of their own destinies. They 
demand responsibility on every side. 
As if life would not give them an over- 
dose of responsibility before they finish 
a longer career than that of college ! 
They must govern themselves ; verily, 
they must, if they can, govern the fac- 
ulty, and if they were not convinced 
that the trustees were a hopeless group 
of unsympathetic, elderly gentlemen, 

with the one asset of bulging pocket- 
books, they would storm that academic 
height, too. But their predicament, 
even if it has its comic aspects, is a se- 
rious one — indeed, it is a serious prob- 
lem for the entire college. 

And the girls are right when they 
talk about "radical steps," only the 
trouble is they do not know which way 
to step; and while they are busy con- 
tradicting one another and their elders, 
and hesitating, the requirement for 
work shoots up higher because some 
college in the West has decided to take 
a "stand" and to increase the possi- 
bilities of considering forty-six different 
subjects in one year to fifty-six. The 
change is accepted — it has to be, for 
the students have quite as much pride 
as their instructors, and know just as 
well as they that colleges are not upon 
the stable basis of some absolute good, 
but, rather, upon the sliding scale of 
competition. With the extra crowding 
the process of assimilation becomes 
more sluggish. They do not realize, 
and their instructors do not realize, 
that close confinement on bread and 
water with one robust, medium-sized 
thought would sometimes be better for 
them than the vast anaemic note-taking 
of the class-room. 

Eighty-six of the eighty-eight students 
I have mentioned added their voices 
to the plea for leisure, and a few have 
admitted at the same time that the 
great fault on the part of the students 
is a lack of plain common sense and 
power of selection. One student writes 
that the remedy for this life of rush and 
hurry must lie in the development of a 
sense of proportion. In their own 
words, they know that their weeks are 
"crammed, superficial and altogether 
unsatisfactory." But they do not take 
time to get "caught up" and start off 
again; so the vicious circle continues. 
They will not even attack thoughtfully 
the problems of their own individual 
lives, making such adjustment, such 
sensible changes towards betterment 
as are actually within their grasp. 

Perhaps a few suggestions from one 
who has made many of the mistakes to 
which the average college student is 



liable will not come amiss and will not 
be considered officious. The writer is 
all too aware that her ideal day may be 
another's anathema, but believes, how- 
ever far she or the college may be from 
its realization, that there is such a 
quantity as an ideal day. Health, hap- 
piness, work, leisure — these are the 
four desiderata to which everything 
else must be subservient. If one pauses 
to think carefully about each one of 
these elements in a wholesome life, it 
will be seen that not one can develop 
without the co-existence of the other 
three. I give them in what is for me 
the logical order of their importance, 
with the frank expression of opinion 
that frequently it seems that the col- 
lege plans its regime for the woman 
of thirty and not for the growing girl ; 
that its provision for the maintenance 
of health is not sufficient; that its em- 
phasis upon work is too insistent; that 
its disregard of leisure among faculty 
and students is to be regretted. To 
cut the Gordian knot of its multiplied 
interests, however, is not easy I 
know, with all deference for those who 
have spent years in trying to adjust 
such matters, that it is simpler to criti- 
cise conditions than to solve a problem. 
To the writer one thing appears in- 
contestably true — that whereas the world 
has no absolute need for students, its need 
for healthy men and women is absolute. 
Six hours of concentrated mental work is 
all the average adult can do to advan- 
tage; it should certainly be all re- 
quired of the college girl. Of course, 
six hours of dilly-dallying will accom- 
plish nothing, when the same amount 
of time expended with the verve used 
in basket ball or tennis should be suffi- 
cient to give a student high rank in all 
her work. Such a schedule robs the 
twenty-four hours of only six; a wide 
enough margin remains so that one 
who needs more sleep than eight hours 
(as most people do) can have it — say, 
ten hours at least. Of the remaining 
eight, three or four must be spent in 
dressing and at the table. This leaves 
an ample margin — a chance for every- 
one to be out of doors for at least two 
hours. As things are now, the average 

hard-working student takes at the most 
forty-five minutes. 

Of course, the difficulty is two-fold. 
If the student insists upon spending all 
her leisure in executive Avork — that 
endlessly ramified obligation of which, 
thank fortune, the English and Ger- 
man student knows nothing — she is 
like the man who said he would drown 
and nobody should help him. Indeed, 
she will drown. And, on the other 
hand, if the instructor, keenly ambi- 
tious, adds to the pressure of work, 
there is hardly an escape from the 
double screw. It is a case which calls 
for restraint; on the part of the college 
in refusing to multiply courses and re- 
quirements, and on the part of the stu- 
dents in refusing needlessly to multiply 
executive and social duties. 

Both student and instructor desire 
the same end; the best good of the stu- 
dent. The college woman is not at 
heart an irresponsible, notional child; 
nor is the instructor a Russian auto- 
crat. Girls sometimes talk in a way 
that would lead you to believe that col- 
lege work is a system of tyranny; but 
they well know the difficulties met by 
instructors and respect their teachers 
for the problems they must solve. 

More latitude in the accomplishment 
of work and an absolute requirement in 
passing it off would relieve a college fac- 
ulty immensely. With long hours of sleep, 
ample exercise and leisure, requirements, 
which are bugbears now, would be- 
come, as they should, a part of the 
day's pleasure. If once the spirit of 
hard work and hard play, governed by 
common sense, could be started in a 
college, both instructor and student 
would soon learn the difficult art of 
saying "no." Both would soon learn 
that fifteen-minute readings and walks 
are equally vicious ; that the one to the 
overcrowded mind brings no happi- 
ness, and that the other to the fatigued 
body no health. Both would soon learn 
that overcrowding is crowding out. In- 
deed, it seems to the writer that the 
one word "no" used sensibly by in- 
structor and student is the only solvent 
for the whole problem. 

The Biography of a Trout— II. 


AFTER a month of feeding, some 
of the little fish have grown so 
much more rapidly than others 
that it becomes necessary to sort 
them to prevent the larger ones from 
eating their weaker brothers and sis- 
ters. And so the little fishes are di- 
vided and sorted at frequent intervals, 
until the troughs, which carried 40,000 
at the beginning, are still full with only 
1000 fish, which have been fed two or 
three months. 

Let us pause in the story of the or- 
phan and his companions long enough 
to look over his new home. The hatch- 
ery stands at one side of a beautiful 
green meadow, winch is dotted here 
and there with small sheets of water. 
These are the larger breeding ponds 
for the big fish, rearing ponds, some- 
what smaller, in which are the medium- 
sized fish, and the nursery ponds, in 
which the fry are cared for. 

Through the meadow there flows a 
stream of water made up of springs in 
the forest-clad hills not far away. Some 
of the water flows into the hatchery, 
where it is distributed so as to supply 
the various tiers of hatching troughs. 
The stream is again divided several 
times, so that some of it flows through 
each of the ponds. 

In the breeding ponds there are trout 
weighing two or three pounds. Then 
there are the two-year-olds and the 
yearlings, graded according to size in 
ponds set apart for them. Unlike the 
wild trout, these fish are quite tame, 
and some of them will take food from 
the fish man's hand. They are usually 
hungry, and when they see the shadow 
of the fish man fall across the water 
they crowd to the bank, and as he 
throws spoonfuls of food around the 
pond the water seems to boil. The 

fish man sees the mass of fins and tails 
squirming and twisting and turning 
about in haste to reach a choice mor- 
sel, while some leap out of the water, 
turn a complete somersault and swim 
greedily away with a mouthful. He 
carefully watches their capricious ap- 
petites and sees that no food is left to 
foul the pond. 

He has become so well acquainted 
with certain ones that he has given 
them names. Jim and Mary are two 
especial favorites, which are always 
pointed out to the many visitors as 
the largest and oldest trout at the 

Mary has seven generations of chil- 
dren, numbering as many thousands, 
which are scattered far and wide. To 
attempt to figure her grandchildren 
and great-granchildren requires more 
arithmetic than it is best to bring into 
this story, and the orphan and his 
companions in the crowded troughs 
need attention. 

So the fish man counts and sorts 
them according to size, and then trans- 
fers them to the nursery ponds. Our 
orphan is graded with the largest fry 
and is one of the liveliest in the school, 
As his life is much like that of the 
others, his experiences will be recorded. 

Now, the experiences of fish at a 
hatchery seem to consist principally in 
eating and in dodging those who wish 
to eat them, while those of fishes in a 
stream are practically the same, ex- 
cept that in the stream the big fishes 
eat the little ones, the little ones eat 
one another, and all are caught and 
eaten by various animals, including the 
angler and his friends. At the hatch- 
ery it is intended to protect our orphan 
and his friends as much as possible 
until they have grown to a size when 




they can take care of themselves; but 
there are daily tragedies in every 
trough and pond, even under the vigi- 
lant care of the fish man. 

Not long after our orphan was 
placed in a nursery pond he sees what 
appears to him a very large fish, with 
some curious marks on his sides, swim- 
ming boldly among his mates, and 
every now and then making a rush at 
one of them with his mouth open wide ; 
sometimes he seizes one by the tail and 
again across its body, but he always 
gives the victim a dextrous twist and 
swallows it head first. For two days 
he is in terror for his life, and spends 
his hours dodging this big fellow, lest 
he share the fate of his mates. On the 
third day, as he watches from his hid- 
ing place, he sees the familiar shadow 
of the fish man. This time he has a 
long-handled net in his hand. A quick 
movement, and the big fish which has 
been the terror of the pond is flutter- 
ing in the net, and the fish man is ex- 
amining those curious marks and won- 
dering how a fish of this size got into 
the nursery pond. The marks are 
V-shaped, as if made by the bill of a 
bird, and he recalls that a kingfisher 
was caught two days ago in a trap set 
on a pole over the nursery pond. Now 
he has the whole story. The king- 
fisher, without doubt, caught a trout 
about six inches long and lit on the 
top of the pole, intending to enjoy his 
prey. When the trap sprung, the bird 
dropped the fish bearing the telltale 
marks of its beak among his younger 

Of course, the orphan and his friends 
do not know how the larger trout got 
into their pond, for he did not stop to 
tell them his experience before he be- 
gan to eat them ; but it does not take 
them long to learn that their big 
brother is a terrible cannibal, and that 
such fellows must be avoided. 

This tragedy was unusual, but it re- 
sulted in the loss of a hundred little 
fish. Did a few of the strongest fish 
in the pond at this time learn how to 
eat their companions, or was it natural 
to them? At any rate, a few of the 
weaker fish disappear daily, and one 

IvARvab of the Caddis fi,y 

day the fish man sees a little fellow 
with the tail of another one sticking 
out of his mouth. He removes this 
fellow, as he does others, whenever 
they show a tendency to eat one an- 
other; for it is known that if the little 
fish are well fed there will be only a 
few cannibals among them, and that it 
pays to kill or to separate them from) 
the others. 

Not long after the tragedy of the! 
kingfisher a sandpiper on the edge oi 
the pond is seen to pick up and swal-i 
low several of the little fishes. This is! 
another unusual occurrence, and the 
biologist will tell you that the throal 
of the sandpiper is not properly con-j 
structed to eat little fishes, and yet thcj 
fish man saw the bird do it. 

The nursery ponds do not receive sq 
much attention from fish robbers asL 
do the ponds where there are yearling 
and two-year-olds, but the orphan seejf 
his friends stolen away very frequentl) 
— now by the water ouzel, once by i\ 
little wren, again by a pewee; bul 
these little birds are not very harmful 
as compared with many larger bird*] 
and quadrupeds, and no attempt i;|J 
made to kill them. \ 

One day a sly mink creeps up thJj 
drain pipe from the river and create: 
terror in the pond. He is catching th 
orphan's friends at the rate of one 



minute, when, fortunately, the fish man 
happens to look out of the window. 
He watches the little brown animal 
dive, come to the surface with a fish 
in his mouth, drop it dead into the 
waste drain and instantly dive for an- 
other, until it looks as if there would 
be but few left in the pond if he does 
not quickly interfere. A shot from 
his gun settles the matter, but not be- 
fore thirty fish have been killed. The 
mink evidently intended to provide a 
feast for himself and family and all of 
his neighbors before commencing to 
carry away his booty. 

Of all the enemies of the fishes, the 
kingfisher is most hated by the fish 
man. Not only is he very proficient 
in the art of catching fish, but he pro- 
claims his presence with an unmis- 
takable and rattling cry. Although 
he builds his nest in the sand banks 
some distance away he brings his 

children to the ponds as soon as they 
can fly. He gets busy very early in the 
morning and on Sundays, when the 
fish man would like to enjoy a morn- 
ing nap, he is awakened by this noisy 
robber, and knows that if he lingers 
in bed he will be the loser of some fine 

Cranes and herons make occasional 
early-morning calls, coming unan- 
nounced and doing their work silently 
and quickly. They are quite as de- 
structive as the kingfishers. 

The noisy bullfrog, in his search for 
live food to appease a never-failing 
appetite, occasionally invades the 
ponds and steals young fish. If live 
insects are plentiful, he is a peaceful 
citizen, and the little fish play around 
him unmolested; but he must have 
live food. 

The eel is an occasional visitor at 
the ponds, having come all the way 

Transferring eggs erom packing trays to hatching trays, St. Johnsbury station 



from the ocean, where all eels are 
born. He is a slippery fellow to deal 
with, and such a good climber that it 
is difficult to stop his ascent into the 
ponds. He is very adept in catching 
young trout, and knows how to round 
them up in schools. 

The summer passes away quickly, 
and notwithstanding sandpipers, king- 
fishers, herons, cranes, bullfrogs and 
eels, the ponds are teeming with fish. 
By the use of traps set on poles for 
fishhawks, owls and kingfishers, others 
set in drains for minks, and again in 
certain places where cranes and herons 
are specially fond of wading, and also 
by the use of the ever-ready shotgun, 
the fish have been quite well protected. 
That these enemies are numerous is 
shown by the fact that before winter 
comes again the fish man has a record 
of no less than twenty-seven kinds 
of birds, quadrupeds and reptiles 
which have been destroyed in vary- 
ing quantities in order to protect the 

Our orphan and his companions are 
now from three to five inches long, and 
it is time for another distribution to 
ponds and streams. They are first 
sorted and counted out into cans of 
water, except a few of the largest and 
handsomest, which are placed in rear- 
ing ponds to be kept for breeders. Our 
orphan is one of the latter. 

The cans, which easily contained 
5000 fry last spring, will not safely 
carry more than 200 of the same fish 
three or four months older. Some of 
the cans are sent direct to the heads 
of streams in the hills by wagon loads ; 
others are hauled to the station and 
loaded into the baggage cars of pas- 
senger trains, to be delivered to appli- 
cants for distribution in more distant 
streams ; still others are carried on cars 
especially equipped for carrying quan- 
tities of live fish for journeys requiring 
several days. 

Thus the young fish are planted in 
the waters which are to be their future 
homes, where they must continue the 
struggle for existence, with no fathers 
or mothers to guide them and no fish 
man to protect them. 

In the rearing pond our orphan and 
his friends are not so crowded as they 
were in the nursery. They are now 
large enough to attract the kingfishers, 
and the orphan sees several of his com- 
panions carried away in the beaks of 
these terrible birds before cold weather 
drives them south. He, too, has a very 
narrow escape, having felt the bird's 
beak, but soon learns to rush into deep 
water whenever the shadow of a bird 
appears above him. 

They now have a new experience in 
the kind of food given them. While in 
the nursery they learned to eat coarser 
liver than was given them as fry, but 
it was otherwise the same-. Now the 
liver is mixed with the coarser part of 
flour, called wheat middlings, after the 
latter has been boiled, and this mixture 
is to be their food for the rest of their 
lives at the hatchery. They do not like 
it at first, but it is that or nothing, and 
they soon learn to eat it, and continue 
to grow much more rapidly than their 
mates who have been liberated in 
streams and ponds. 

Throughout the winter, life at the 
hatchery is uneventful for the fish. As 
the water grows colder they become 
less active. For weeks at a time the 
ponds are covered with ice and snow. 
The fish sleep away these days much 
as the bears do, and need no food until 
warmer weather arouses them. It is 
a busy time for the fish man, however, 
for the hatching troughs are full of 
eggs collected from the older trout in 
the larger ponds. 

Now, perhaps you are wondering 
how the fish man got a million eggs 
to fill the troughs. Soon after the 
transfer of the orphan to the rearing 
pond, which was followed by the dis- ] 
tribution of most of his companions 
and just about a year from the time | 
when Mr. and Mrs. Trout made a nest 
and filled it with eggs, all the older 
trout in the breeding ponds take on 
brighter colors. The white tips of the 
fins look whiter and the red along the 
sides becomes redder, but they do not 
have the brilliant colors of Mr. and 
Mrs. Trout. These fish in the ponds 
are domesticated trout, which have 



lived at the hatchery all their lives. 
They have not had an opportunity to 
swim about wherever they pleased, to 
eat caddis worms and flies, bugs, 
shrimp and other minute water ani- 
mals, all of which help to heighten the 
color of a wild fish. So the domesti- 
cated trout never have such brilliant 
colors as their wild companions, but 
they have always been well fed, the 
ponds have been kept scrupulously 
clean, the fish have occasionally re- 

the pond into a tub. Then he takes a 
female in one hand, while with the 
other he gently strips the eggs into a 
milk pan without any water in it. The 
eggs flow freely, just as milk does from 
a cow. Then a male trout is treated in 
the same way and the milt flows over 
the eggs. After stripping two or three 
fish, the pan is given a rotary motion 
with the hand until the milt has 
touched all of the eggs. Then water is 4 
added to the pan of eggs, poured off 

Spawning crew returning with eggs Erom spawning grounds 
Grand Mesa dake, Colorado 

ceived a bath in salt water to free 
them from parasites, and they are 

The same instinct as that of their 
wild brothers makes them wish to pair 
off, make nests and lay eggs, and there 
are some fierce battles among the 
males. The fish man watches them 
closely, and whenever he sees any ripe 
fish — that is, fish which are apparently 
ready to lay eggs — he nets them out of 

and more added. The process is re- 
peated until all sediment has floated 
out of the pan, leaving it about half- 
full of beautiful, amber-colored eggs, 
nearly all of which have been fertilized. 
This work is continued day after day 
until all the brood fish have been 
stripped of eggs. Each day, when the 
stripping process has been completed, 
the eggs are carried into the hatchery, 
spread out on trays of wire cloth, and 



laid down in the troughs where a cur- 
rent of clear, cool water is constantly 
passing over them. 

It will be recalled that Mrs. Trout 
laid about a thousand eggs; that only 
a small part of them were fertilized, 
and that a much smaller number were 
destined to hatch into little fishes. By 
stripping eggs into a dry pan and then 
applying the milt, nearly all of them 
are fertilized. This shows the great 

or that the next year they will be called 
upon to help stock the hatchery with 
eggs. m 

Springtime comes around again, and 
the hatchery is full of fry, just as it was 
a year ago, when the orphan arrived. 
The ice has melted from the ponds and 
the frost is all out of the ground. Only 
one lot of fish have met with any mis- 
haps during the winter. When the 
snow melted there was a telltale path 

Field hatchery, Grand Mesa, Colorado 

advantage of the artificial method of 
fertilizing the eggs ; then, too, they are 
protected from the dangers of enemies, 
floods and sediment in the hatching 
troughs, as we have already seen. 

All of the breeders are returned to 
the ponds after being stripped, none 
the worse for being thus handled. 

The orphan and his companions do 
not know anything about what has 
been going on among the older fishes, 

made by a mink, or perhaps by several 
of them, leading from the stream, un- 
der the snow and plank walks, to the 
edge of one of the ponds. No one 
knows for how long a time the wily 
minks have been carrying off nice two- 
year-old fish by this underground pas- 
sage, but prompt measures are taken 
to prevent any more thefts. 

Another summer passes by, the or- 
phan and most of his friends surviving 



the depredations of the various ene- 
mies that prey upon them; the beauti- 
ful autumn foliage appears again on 
the hills, and the heightened color 
again comes to the older fishes. 

The orphan is now a year and a half 
old, seven inches in length, and weighs 
a quarter of a pound. He and his com- 
panions at the hatchery have grown 
more rapidly than those which were 
put into the streams a year ago. In 
fact, it will probably be a whole year 
more before the latter weigh even a 
quarter of a pound. 

The fish man has been watching the 
orphan lately, for he sees that this little 
waif has more color than his compan- 
ions; the red spots are more distinct 
and the mottling of his sides more 
beautiful. It occurs to him that it is 
wise to introduce new blood at the 
hatchery now and then, and he deter- 
mines to secure some eggs from wild 
trout. The first thing to be done is to 
catch the fish, and his mind turns to 
the stream and pond on the mountain 
from which our orphan came. So he 
builds a trap on the brook, not far from 
where Mrs. Trout lived. It is so con- 
structed that when the trout ascend 
the stream they enter a pen and then 
cannot find their way out. In fact, 
they will not try to turn back, because 
they have started on a journey up 
stream; and when a fish makes up its 
mind to reach the nesting place, it per- 
sists in its undertaking regardless of 
all obstacles. 

Soon a very rainy season comes and 
the stream is so swollen that it nearly 
washes over the top of the trap. The 
high water is a signal for the fish to 
rush up the stream from the pond, but 
they soon find themselves in the trap. 
No matter how often they try to jump, 
they cannot surmount this obstacle. A 
watchman camping in a shanty near 
by dips them out of the trap as fast as 
they come in and puts them into adjoin- 
ing pens. What a run of trout ! Some 
weigh as much as two pounds, but 
there are all sizes, from a quarter of a 
pound up, and all beautifully colored. 
By night time he has counted a thou- 
sand into the pens. 

Alone, he cooks and eats his supper 
to the tune of rushing water, varied by 
the occasional splash of a trout which 
is trying to leap over the rack of slats 
that forms the upper side of the trap. 
The black darkness of a rainy night 
has shut everything from view when 
he lies down on his bunk. for a short 
nap. An hour later he is awakened by 
the screech of an owl in an adjacent 
tree. As he springs from his bunk he 
lands in the water that now covers the 
floor of his shanty. Fortunately, the 
water is not yet over the platform on 
which he stands and dips, nor over the 
tops of the slats forming the trap and 
pens, and as there are fish in the trap 
he begins dipping them into the pens. 
At first he counts as he dips, but when 
a hedgehog brushes by his bare legs 
in the darkness he loses his count. It 
is a long and weary night for him, but 
so long as there are fish to be dipped 
from the trap, both mind and body are 
kept occupied. Towards morning the 
water subsides somewhat, and when 
the fish man arrives at daylight they 
take account of stock, while the watch- 
man relates his experiences. 

There are fifteen hundred fish in one 
of the pens, but only a few in the other. 
A closer examination reveals the fact 
that there is a washout underneath one 
of the pens adjoining the trap. The 
watchman had been dipping the same 
fish over and over all night. All that 
were put into the washed-out pen re- 
entered the trap in their persistent ef- 
forts to stem the current and get up 
stream. It was not quite as bad as 
bailing water from the brook, but the 
watchman thought that it was when 
he retired to his bunk that morning. 
The fish man immediately gets to 
work. First, he repairs the pen which 
was washed out and then he sorts the 
fish. The ripe females are placed in a 
pen by themselves and the others 
sorted as well as the temporary pen- 
ning facilities permit. Some of the 
ripe fish are now dipped into a tub, and 
the operation of stripping and fertil- 
izing eggs is performed just as it is 
done with the domesticated trout at the 
hatchery. As fast as stripped the fish 



are liberated above the trap, so that 
they may resume their journey up 
stream, and if the very last egg is not 
expelled from the female,. she certainly 
will continue her journey and spawn 
again in the natural way. 

It is noticeable that the eggs of these 
wild trout are more richly-colored than 
are those from the fish at the hatchery, 
some of them being of a deep salmon 
color. A close examination will show 
that the color of trout eggs corresponds 
closely to the flesh of the fish. Trout 
with white meat have eggs of a light 
color, while the salmon-colored eggs 
come from fish having rich, salmon- 
colored flesh. This variation in the 
color of the flesh and eggs is attributed 
to the nature of the food upon which 
the fish live. 

At the close of the morning's opera- 
tions the fish man can estimate very 
closely the number of eggs he has taken 
by glancing at the row of pans ; but if 
he had taken the trouble to weigh all 
the females, perhaps a more accurate 
estimate could be given, for it is known 
that a wild trout weighing two pounds 
produces about 2000 eggs ; that a one- 
pound trout lays about 1000 eggs, and 
smaller trout lay a lesser number, pro- 
portionate to their weight. 

But the eggs must be taken to the 
hatching troughs without unnecessary 
delay, and the fish man knows that as 
soon as the eye spots show, the eggs 
can without injury be measured in a 
glass graduate or even in a quart meas- 
ure, just as if they were blueberries. Of 
course, he must count one measure full 
before he can calculate the total num- 
ber he has in all. 

Fish culturists, as a rule, are not sen- 
timental, but this one has taken a spe- 
cial interest in the orphan, and remem- 
bers that he came of wild parents liv- 
ing in the stream where his trap has 
done such effective work. Perhaps one 
of the very large females caught in the 
trap is his mother; who knows? At 
any rate, the fish man has some of these 
beautiful trout placed in tubs of water, 
and has them hauled to the hatchery 
before they are stripped. 

At the proper time the orphan con- 
tributes his share of milt to fertilize 
some of the eggs of these wild fish, 
and then all, including the orphan, are 
liberated in one of the largest breeding 
ponds for the winter. 

The hatchery is overcrowded with 
eggs this year, for in addition to those 
taken from the brood stock, the wild 
trout have contributed many more. 

Winter comes again and the eggs 
have been developing in the hatching 
troughs until the eye-spots of the little 
fish can be seen in them. Now the fish 
man has orders to ship some of the 
eggs to other hatcheries in this coun- 
try and also to foreign countries. 
Those for Argentina and New Zealand 
have long journeys to take. He has al- 
ready prepared the cases with nests of 
trays in them, and has been ready to 
fill the orders the minute the eye-spots 
show. Those intended for ocean voy- 
ages receive the first attention, for they 
must travel thirty to fifty days before 
they arrive at the fisheries where they 
are to be hatched. 

The eggs are spread one or two lay- 
ers deep on trays of canton flannel 
which have been soaked in cold water; 
then they are covered with mosquito 
netting, and on top of this are placed 
thin layers of soft moss. The trays are 
stacked one upon another, fastened to- 
gether, placed in boxes, surrounded on 
the sides by moss, with a box of ice on 
top. The ice keeps the eggs moist and 
so cold that they cannot develop and 
hatch while on the way. Those for 
foreign shipment are surrounded by 
ice on all sides except the bottom. 

Another spring has come and gone, 
and it is now two years since the or- 
phan made his debut by way of the 
city water main. He and his wild 
mates are jumping about in the pond 
and snapping at flies and other insects, 
or even at floating leaves. They ap- 
pear to have the mood for jumping, 
which occasionally comes to all trout, 
whether there is anything to jump at 
or not. They are too happy and busy 
to notice that the water is gradually 
becoming shallow, until suddenly some 
of the earth of the pond embankment 



falls with a splash; there is a sudden 
rush of water towards the break, and 
the fish instinctively follow the cur- 
rent. The fish man, sauntering by, 
sees the break and quickly throws a 
net over it, but not until a number of 
fish have escaped to the river, while 
the rest, frightened and flopping, rush 
into the deepest place they can find. 
The break is quickly repaired and the 
pond slowly refills, but the exposed 

water at the entrance of each hole. The 
next morning he finds three large male 
muskrats in the traps, more holes 
started and more floating grass. He 
sets more traps and again the next 
morning he finds still more muskrats. 
The trapping is continued for ten days, 
and as a result thirteen muskrats have 
been caught from as many holes, all of 
them being males. The traps are kept 
set for some days longer, but as no 


embankments have disclosed a num- 
ber of holes. The fish man also no- 
tices bunches of grass floating about 
the pond, and he knows from it and the 
holes that muskrats have been visiting 
the pond. 

Now, the muskrat does not often kill 
fish, but he and the mink, and some- 
times field mice, dig holes in the banks 
of ponds, thus causing serious wash- 
outs, as in the present instance. So 
the'fish man sets a steel trap under 

more muskrats are caught, all the holes 
are tamped full of clay. 

There were no muskrat signs in any 
of the other ponds, and the fish man is 
still pondering as to whether these 
thirteen muskrats intended to build as 
many homes and then go to seek their 
mates, or whether they were intending 
to establish a bachelors' club? 

The fish man now takes account of 
stock. He has lost some very hand- 
some trout, and, sad to relate, the or- 



phan is one of them. Or shall we not 
rejoice that this city waif is now free 
to roam at large in the beautiful, deep 
pools of the meadow, to taste of the in- 
sects and other good things which wild 
trout enjoy, and, when the autumn 
leaves have turned, to choose a mate 
and partake of the joys and sorrows of 
family life, even though it be for a brief 

One would think that his early train- 
ing at the hatchery would unfit him 
for the battle of life in the greater trout 
world, but if we can believe one-half of 
the stories told by fishermen, the natu- 
ral instincts of self-preservation came 
with his freedom. Certain it is that the 
orphan escaped the snares of the small 
boy, as well .as the hooks of the anglers, 
until he became noted among the vil- 
lage fishermen, any one of whom can 
tell you a remarkable story about his 
experiences with the big trout which 
lived under the stump down by the 

Many are the hooks which were lost 
and the lines that were snagged under 
the old stump. One old fisherman of 
veracity is very sure that this is the 
same fish which allowed him to tickle 
it with his fingers as it lay under the 
bank just above the old stump. At any 
rate, the old fisherman creeps cau- 
tiously up to the bank of the stream 
and peers into the water, hoping to get 
a sight of the fish which stole his bait. 
After a long wait on his stomach, dur- 
ing which he carefully scans the con- 
tents of the pool without attracting the 
attention of the fish, he sees directly 
beneath him under the bank the bril- 
liant side of a large trout. Slowly and 
carefully he lowers his arm until his 
hand is under water by the side of the 
fish. Then he stealthily closes his fin- 
gers so that the tips just touch the 
belly of the fish. The fish quivers at 
the touch and darts swiftly across the 
pool. The angler remains immovable, 
with his fingers in the water bent as 
if the fish were still there. Quicker 
than it takes to tell it, the fish returns 
to the same spot over the fingers, and 
remains for a few seconds to be stroked 
and then dashes under the stump. The 

narrator of this story is positive he was 
tickling the famous trout of the pool, 
and that it then weighed about a pound 
and a half. His brother fishermen who 
have had their hooks snagged by the 
famous fish of the Eddy all aver that 
their fish weighed anywhere from two 
to five pounds. 

It is hoped that my readers will not 
view the tickling episode as an imag- 
inary fish story, for the experience is 
not an unusual one; and the writer 
knows of a gentleman who caught a 
creel full of a species of trout called 
Dolly Varden by first tickling them 
with his fingers and then closing his 
hand on them. However, the orphan 
was not destined to be tickled to death. 

Most of the village anglers and not 
a few summer visitors from the city let 
their favorite bait drift with the cur- 
rent down through the hole by the 
stump or cast their flies over it. 

The village blacksmith, who always 
uses for bait one of those queer little 
fish called chuckleheads when after 
big trout, has tried for the orphan 
many times and failed. 

Another angler, lantern in hand, 
steals softly around the garden at 
night, seeking dew-worms or night- 
walkers — a great fish-worm which 
comes out after the dew has fallen and 
stretches himself over the ground, al- 
ways keeping his tail in his hole and 
disappearing quickly at the least jar. 
Although he skilfully places the largest 
one on the hook by the collar and dan- 
gles it full length in the pool, the or- 
phan is not deceived by it in the least. 

Then the boy with a tempting, live 
grasshopper or cricket on his hook 
starts it sailing upon a chip, and when 
the chip reaches the right place, makes 
it tumble off as naturally as if it had 
just hopped into the water; but he, too, 
is a failure. 

The orphan seems to understand that 
a hook is hidden in each bait. He plays 
with the chucklehead, bites off the head 
of the cricket and the dangling end of 
the dew-worms Many times the bare 
hook is drawn up when the angler 
never knew he had a bite. At other 
times he feels a tremendous jerk and 



the next moment he is trying to un- 
tangle the line from the roots that 
guard the orphan's home. 

The one who drops a young, wrig- 
gling field mouse over the pool by 
moonlight cannot tell what happened ; 
there is one big tug and then he finds 
his line hooked in a neighboring tree, so 
excitedly does he pull in hopes of land- 
ing the big fish. After this he gives it 
up in disgust, as do many others, who 
go far up the stream where fish are 

time. He does not have much time to 
go fishing, but in his long rides about 
the country, if about sunset or just be- 
fore sunrise he chances to be near a 
trout stream, he usually hitches his 
horse, limbers up his rod and makes a 
few casts over some favorite pool, with 
every part of which he has become fa- 
miliar. Thus it happens that, upon 
coming back from the bedside of a very 
sick patient, early dawn finds him on 
the meadow road, and a glimmer of 

Interior oe one oe the U. S. Bureau oe Fisheries cars 

more plentiful, if not so large and fa- 

The village doctor, who always car- 
ries a fishing rod under the seat of his 
buggy and a book of flies in his pocket, 
is not so easily discouraged. The doc- 
tor is noted the country over, not only 
for his skill in the sick room, but also 
as a fisherman. It is common talk 
among the loungers at the store that 
the doctor can cast a fly sixty or more 
feet and put it into a silk hat every 

water in a distant pool tells him that 
the light is just right to try the famous 

With rod in hand he stealthily 
creeps to the brook, some distance 
above the pool, puts his leader in soak, 
and then selects a white fly suited to 
the dim light at this time of day. After 
jointing his rod together he carefully 
adjusts his leader to the line, the fly 
to the leader, and makes a few short 
casts. Then, measuring the distance 



carefully with his eye, with a longer 
cast his fly drops lightly over the cen- 
ter of the pool. At the instant the fly 
touches the water the trout jumps for 
it. He does not turn a somersault, as 
small trout do, but a big head with 
open mouth appears just above the sur- 
face, the mouth closes, the doctor gives 
a short, quick jerk and is on his feet in 
an instant. 

Then follows a battle royal. The fa- 
mous trout is fairly hooked, and in 
spite of all his efforts is unable to reach 
his favorite refuge under the roots. On 
the other hand, the doctor finds it hard 
to reel in any of the line, and his slen- 
der rod is bent nearly double. His 
nerves thrill with delight as the enor- 
mous trout jumps entirely out of the 
water and shakes himself violently in 
his attempts to free himself from the 

Then the trout makes a rush for 
rapid water, where the current helps 
him in his resistance, and the reel fairly 
sings as the doctor lets out a few feet 
of line. Up and down rushes the fish, 
and coolly the doctor walks up and 
down the bank, now reeling in a bit of 
line, now letting it out again, but al- 
ways straining his rod to what would 
seem the breaking point, rather than 
let the fish reach the snags under the 
stump. This is repeated many times. 

Through it all there is not a moment 
that the tension is relaxed, and, al- 
though there are moments of compara- 
tive quiet, the quivering, straining re- 
sistance never ceases. Gradually the 
rushes which tried nerves and tackle 
alike grow less fierce, and the doctor 
reels in some of the line. Then the big 
fish is drawn to the surface of the 
water, gasping, but still struggling. 
Gradually he is led to a quiet, shallow 
place at the head of the pool. Now it is 
that the doctor hesitates as to what to 
do, for he has no landing net, and a 
false move at this stage will mean the 
loss of the fish. 

With the bent rod pointing over his 
head, he stealthily draws the fish to a 
gradually sloping sandbar, and at the 
same time moves toward it, stoops 
over, and is just about to seize the fish 
with his hand when it makes one more 
struggle and the hook flies from its 
jaw. Now, the doctor, always so calm 
in the sick room, and usually so cool 
when landing a big trout, becomes ex- 
cited, and for once, throwing his rod 
and dignity aside, literally drops down 
on all fours in a vain attempt to cap- 
ture the prize, but the orphan gives one 
big flop in the shallow water and is out 
of sight; and the sun, peeping up over 
the horizon, sees a very wet, tired and 


Pack horses waded with brook trout in the Colorado Rockies 



disgusted man untying his horse and 
heading for home. 

Refreshed by a cold plunge, dry 
clothes and a cup of coffee, the doctor 
tells his wife and children at the break- 
fast table of his defeat. No one notices 
that Jack, his sturdy ten-year-old, looks 
very much interested, for he says 

A week later, hot and panting, he 
comes rushing onto the lawn, holding 
an enormous fish, and shouting at the 
top of his voice: "I got him, papa! I 
got him !" And, sure enough, he had 
the orphan hanging from a forked stick. 

All inquiries failed to find how he 
was finally caught. It may be that our 
orphan became too confident after his 
last escape, and thus made an easy 

Some of the boys say that Jack spent 
the week since his father's failure wad- 
ing in the stream in hunting caddis 
worms, and used the queer little crea- 
tures for bait. 

Investigation only showed that a 
long, stiff pole was found lying beside 
the pool, with a strong line and a big 
hook tied to it. 

Jack's mother thinks her boy was too 
excited to know how he ever did land 
the fish, for he never told even her. 
The village blacksmith, who first found 
the pole, remarked: "Just derricked 
him out!" 

Thus ends the career of Mr. Trout, 
and if you wish to hear more about him 
you have only to drop in at the village 
store where he was taken to be 
weighed, and where sundry groceries 
changed hands over wagers which had 
been made during the long evenings of 
the previous winter. 

He had fought a good fight and had 
fulfilled his mission in the world, as at 
last on a platter trimmed with greens 
he decorated the table of one of Na- 
ture's noblemen, who was quite as 
proud that his boy Jack had caught the 
famous trout of the Eddy as if he had 
done it himself. 


Unseal my lips that thou hast sealed in vain, — 

Or thinkest thou to rule the tide's retreat, 

Like old Canute, who thought 'twere but a kingly feat, 

As wave on wave came crashing to the shore. 
When thus, a sudden sea, my thought doth melt, 
Ah, then I know my heart such need of thee hath felt. 

And once the waves were hushed on Gallilee, 
But this still speech that runs from hill to hill 
Hath never yet obeyed behest of mortal will. 

By night swift dreams^shall compass mine intrigue, 

Though league on league of darkness lie between, 

Or all the wide-blown sands the Libyan whirlwinds glean. 

The Chance 


IT is not an unusual thing for two 
brothers to desire the same 
woman. That is an old trick of 
the satirist, Fate. Consequently, when 
Sam Nichols began to pay court to the 
girl whom his brother Tom had been 
patiently, reverently wooing for two 
years, the good people of Crag Cove 
simply wagged their heads wisely, 
cited instances of similar complications 
which had come within the range of 
vision of themselves or their forebears, 
and ended unanimously with the ejacu- 
lation : "Poor Tom I" For to everyone 
who knew the Nichols boys the end was 
clear from the beginning. Did not 
Sam always sweep everything before 
him? Had he not, by means chiefly of 
a certain glib cleverness, outstripped 
Tom at school, over-ridden him in 
sport, and usurped that share in their 
father's confidence which seemed by 
right to belong to the elder son? It 
was only to be expected that Eunice 
Day would be seen less and less fre- 
quently with Tom and more and more 
often in the company of Sam, until 
before many months she was carried a 
bride to a fine, large, white house set 
on a hill and shaded by tall elms, which 
Sam had secured at a tremendous bar- 
gain as the result of a forced sale. "Just 
Sam Nichols* luck !" people said. And 
no doubt many of the girls of Crag 
Cove rather envied Eunice the privilege 
of presiding in that stately mansion. 

As for Tom, he sank into obscurity. 
Always a reserved, diffident lad, in 
losing the one precious prize for which 
he had ever consciously contended in 
rivalry, he seemed to lose whatever 
vestige of self-confidence he had pos- 
sessed. It was a pity! The love and 
trust of a woman would have done 

much to virilize his self-doubting na- 
ture. As it was, the tendrils of his 
sensitive spirit drew back withered: 
all the forces of a sympathetic heart, 
a contemplative mind, and a moral be- 
ing of singular purity recoiled on them- 
selves and left him shut off from the 
world of his fellows. The only capa- 
bility he exhibited was that of silent 
suffering. He was of the stuff from 
which martyrs are made, but not suc- 
cessful men of affairs. Ploddingly, con- 
scientiously, he performed the duties of 
an humble employee in his father's shoe 
factory, and, when the work of the day 
was over, took solitary walks about the 
outskirts of the town or shut himself 
up in a small room on the top floor of 
his father's house, his one retreat, 
which he allowed no one to enter. 
"Queer," the neighbors called him, 
and sometimes they tapped their fore- 
heads slyly as he passed. 

Eunice Nichols, in her proud home 
behind the elms, seldom saw the man 
whose life had been blighted by love of 
her; for the breadth of a little town 
may be as great a barrier as a con- 
tinent to those who will not meet, just 
as the circle of the wide world is small 
to the love that comes to claim its 
own. She was not without knowledge 
of him, however; for there were those 
of her friends who held that any fair 
woman, however tender-hearted, can 
but feel a thrill of pride in the fatal 
work of her charms. So they whis- 
pered to her occasionally over their 
tea or sewing some bit of gossip about 
Tom's peculiar ways, and, although 
Eunice said little in return, she did not 
seem unwilling to listen. 

And it was not surprising that Eu- 
nice found some pitiful, tragic satisfac- 





tion in the knowledge that the marks 
of an ill-starred affection had never 
faded from her former lover's heart. 
For the illusion of her own marriage 
had vanished long since. Learning to 
know her husband better, she had come 
to recognize the fact that her place 
in his life was a minor one, that he 
had simply chosen her as a fitting mis- 
tress for his house, a woman capable 
of filling the position of wife to a man 
of consequence, as he had always in- 
tended to be. It was, perhaps, only 
Tom's attention to her which had 
made him notice her and single her 
out from the rest. "Any other woman 
would have done just as well," she 
often cried bitterly to herself. "Why 
did he not leave me in peace?" It was 
not that she pined for his affection, 
for she had not been led into her mar- 
riage by the promptings of a true love. 
Looking backward, how simple and 
transparent now seemed the irritating 
insinuations, the mysterious allusions 
by which Sam had belittled his brother 
and stung her pride! How cleverly, 
too, he had pushed his advantage at 
just the right moment ! She had seen 
him do it since in driving a bargain, 
and the sight always gave her a stab 
of recollection which made her feel 
more like a chattel than ever. Little 
children's living, clinging hands might 
have drawn her closer to her husband, 
but the tiny graves in the Hill Burying- 
ground did not serve as a bond be- 
tween them; for she could not forgive 
his indifference to the death of the 
weak girl baby, while the father's bit- 
ter rage and disappointment over the 
loss of the boy who was to have carried 
on the family name and influence in the 
business world was a hard, morose 
grief which repelled sympathy and 
utterly refused the consolation of ten- 
der, shared recollections. 

For thirty years Eunice Nichols had 
lived in the house to which she came 
a bride of twenty, when one morning 
her husband, as he rose from the 
breakfast table, remarked with his 
habitual abruptness: "I'm going to 
bring Tom up here this afternoon." 

The color flooded into his wife's 
face, and then receded, leaving it pale. 
"Tom!" she said hesitatingly. "Why, 
he never comes here." 

"Well, there's no reason why he 
shouldn't, is there? Since Father's 
death Mary has bought the house, and 
there's no reason why he should live 
there. He's sick, you know — his lungs 
were always weak — and we have more 
room than Mary has with that large 
family. It's the best thing to do. I 
shall bring him up to-day. Get a 
room ready." 

Eunice had no answer; and, when 
the door closed behind her husband, 
she still sat staring dumbly before her. 
.Tom coming there to stay! Tom, who 
had avoided her for thirty years, to 
be a member of the same household ! 
Was her husband blind? Had he, 
who could retail so accurately for 
years afterward the details of a busi- 
ness transaction, completely forgotten 
the circumstances under which he had 
obtained his wife? And why was he 
doing this? Could it be that he was 
actually considerate for Mary's con- 
venience and for Tom's well-being? 

That afternoon Tom Nichols was 
visited unexpectedly by his brother 
Sam, and almost before poor Tom, 
sick and weak from an attack of 
coughing, could realize what was 
happening, he was bundled into a coat 
and his nastily packed trunk carried 
down the stairs, while his sister, mys- 
tified and troubled, looked on or obeyed 
the curt directions of her domineering 
brother Sam. 

"My God !" was Tom's cry, when he 
came to grasp the truth. "Am I to 
be turned out of my father's house — 
out of my room, the only place I ever 
had? Keep me here, Mary! Let me 
stay here, for the love of Heaven!" 

But Mary, like everyone else in the 
family, was the slave of Sam's will ; 
and so poor, sick Tom was led — al- 
most forced — into the carriage and 
driven to the house behind the elms, 
where a white-faced woman tried with 
stiff and trembling lips to bid him wel- 



Thus it was that Eunice Day and 
Tom Nichols came into each other's 
lives again. At first it was all a hor- 
rible mockery, — the forced interchange 
of civilities, the fluttering attempts at 
speech. Gradually, however, there 
came a change ; for years can build no 
abiding barrier between the truly con- 
genial. Eunice's sweet, delicate face, 
framed in its soft, gray hair, rose like 
a star on the horizon of Tom's barren 
life; and, now that the passions of 
youth were burned out, he could reap 
a dear delight from her gentle presence 
and her sympathetic conversation, 
even though he knew that she was not 
for him. Eunice, starved for the com- 
panionship which her marriage had not 
given, rejoiced to find behind the out- 
ward personality which the world 
called "queer" that kindly, chivalrous 
spirit which she had known. Broken 
in health he undoubtedly was, a man 
whose days were numbered, poorer in 
spirit than in earlier days, crushed, 
indeed, by a lifetime of monotonous 
labor and stifled hope. Yet it was as 
if she had reached the one blessed 
oasis in the desert of her life, to drink 
once more of that kindness and com- 
prehension which she had but tasted 
and then left, alas, how hastily ! 

So the lovers, separated in youth, 
found each other again. Sam was al- 
ways too busy to spend social hours 
with his wife; hence to Tom and Eu- 
nice were left the evenings before 
the fire, when Eunice's needles softly 
clicked a harmonious undertone to 
their speech, and Tom, sitting in 
the shadow, watched the trembling 
fire-gleams as they played across her 
face. Sitting there, Eunice gradually 
came to consult with Tom about house- 
hold matters, which she had never 
dared intrude upon her husband's at- 
tention, and they drew from these dis- 
cussions of little things that comfort 
and encouragement which underlies a 
simple conversation between those who 
love and understand each other. They 
came to talk of their youth; not of 
those two short years which each re- 
membered so well, but of the days be- 

fore that, of the merry-makings enjoyed 
by their set of young people in the 
little town, recalling old jokes, retelling 
old anecdotes. Then, once, when they 
had sat silent for a long time, Eunice 
spoke of the little graves on the Hill — 
of the fair, vigorous boy — of the sweet, 
sickly little girl ; and Tom touched the 
chord of her grief so gently and ten- 
derly that it eased her pain. So they 
sat and talked until late. It might have 
been their own fire-side ; it might have ' 
been their common grief. 

It was, of course, a business matter 
that, about half a year after Tom's 
coming, called Sam Nichols to N.ew 
York for a week. When he returned, 
his wife met him at the door with pale 
and anxious face. "Tom is very sick," 
she whispered. "He won't live, I'm 

Her husband started. "What!" he 
thundered. "I thought he was good 
for six months yet !" 

The woman shrunk before the rough- 
ness of his speech. "His heart," she 

"His heart! Great Scott! Have 
you had the doctor?" 

"Yes, of course. He left some med- 
icine for the attacks. I must go up. 1 
don't dare leave him." 

"Yes, go back quick ! I'm going 
over to get John Morton. What a fool 
I've been to waste so much time !" 

"Get Mr. Morton, the lawyer! 
Why?" exclaimed his wife. 

"To make his will. Good Lord, 
what do you suppose I brought him 
here for, anyway? For you to cos- 
set?" There was a sneer in his laugh. 
He seized his hat and hurried out of 
the door. 

Eunice stood still at the foot of the 
stairs with her hand pressed against 
her heart, which was beating strangely, 
like that poor, strained heart in the 
room above. This was the explana- 
tion, then. It was for Tom's share in 
his father's estate that her husband 
had brought him there. He had not 
forgotten the story of the past, either. 
His jeering speech had shown that. 
Too utterly indifferent to her to object 



himself to the presence in their home 
of his wife's early lover, he treated 
their feelings with deliberate disre- 
gard and scorn. Thus lay clear in all 
its cold meanness the one act of her 
husband which she had thought might 
have proceeded from sincere if over- 
officious kindness. 

She turned and, slowly mounting the 
stairs, entered Tom's chamber. The 
sick man lay asleep. Sometimes he 
moaned; sometimes his eyelids quiv- 
ered as if in pain. Eunice moved 
quietly about; she lowered the shade 
over the light, she raised the window 
to freshen the air, she folded back a 
quilt which seemed to lie too heavy 
upon the sleeper in that warm spring 
night. All the time her thoughts 
dwelt with that pale face on the pillow. 
She could foresee the scene that would 
so soon follow — the lawyer's pom- 
posity, her husband's hard, eager face, 
and the dying man, too weak to know, 
tracing his signature with nerveless 
hand. Of course, such a will might be 
broken; but who would dare to stand 
out against Sam, whose word in family 
affairs was law? Ah, why had she not 
told Tom by what means Sam had 
robbed him of her? Why had she not 
foreseen, to warn him, that he might, 

even at death's door, resist this last ag- 
gression? How she longed to help 
him win one victory at least in that 
frustrate life of his ! She felt as if 
she would give her soul to aid him. 

Suddenly, as she gazed, that strange 
change which she had come to know 
began to steal across his face. In- 
stinctively, with throbbing pulses, she 
reached for the medicine bottle. Just 
then steps sounded on the flagging out- 
side. A thought, piercing and awful, 
flashed through her mind. Her blood 
seemed to freeze, her muscles to 
stiffen, but her brain was agonizingly 
clear. Could she indeed help him? 
Had her chance come in this terrible 
way? A hoarse sound of voices rose 
from the room below. She set the 
bottle, unopened, back in its place, and 
sank on her knees beside the bed. 

"Forgive me — forgive me — God !" 
she pleaded brokenly, and murmuring 
"Tom— Tom— " in the tender tone that 
his conscious ears had never heard, she 
drew his poor head to her breast. 

It was a few minutes later that her 
husband and the lawyer came up the 
stairs. She met them composedly at 
the door.* "Hush," she said, "he is 
dead." And there was a smile upon her 



For many a day I wandered 
My garden ways, alone, 

And all their wealth I squandered. 
For was it not mine own? 

With hands not made for keeping 

I -lavished of the best, 
And yet I left none weeping 

That I should take the quest. 

Would that I had one flower 
For her who bids me live ! 

But barren is her bower 
And naught have I to give. 

Chanteceer" as presented by M. Guitry 



'I am in love with luxury; 

The love of the sun hath won for me 

The splendid and the beautiful." 

SO wrote Sappho; so might have 
written Edmond Rostand of him- 
self. A rhapsodist, he, of the 
luxuriousness of the inanimate; but 
when he is not so rhapsodizing how he 
smells of the midnight oil ! 

Chanticleer is the most over-labored 
literary production that I know of, 
mingled with spontaneous outbursts of 
splendid impressionism. 

Hailed as "one of the keenest satires 
on humanity ever written," it is, in all 
that it reflects of humanity about as 
trite and uninspired as anything could 
be. Here is no ravisher of the crown 
of Aristophanes. 

But let us take seriously the advise- 
ment of the prologue that it is Sunday 
on the farm, and the human population 
have gone for the day. The barn- 
yard becomes the world, its most 
trivial belongings the serious setting 
of the piece. And never was there 
such a glorification of minutiae. We 
expect to see the bee take a derrick 
to lower the pollen from the honey- 
suckle. A magnifying glass, indeed, 
has been dropped between our eyes 
and the stage. 

The personages of the drama are not 
men and women masquerading in 
feathers, but farm fowls endowed with 
human speech and sentiments as a con- 
cession to our dulness and that we 
might understand the story. 

Chanticleer himself is never less 
human and more a gorgeous fowl than 
in the midst of his vaunting hymn to 
the sun. And the little chick is never 
more a chick and less a human child 
than when he gets choked over his 

big name from Roman history — "Cali — 
cali — gu — gu — gula." The old hen 
poking her head out of the basket to 
utter a sententious old saw is the very 
apotheosis of an old hen. It might not 
seem so on the stage, but so it appears 
from a reading of the play. 

Scratching for chance morsels of 
food is the serious business of life, and 
the gravity with which the lines are 
interrupted to run for a grain of corn 
is a part of the drollery of the piece. 

The humorousness of the thing is 
not the humorousness of human but of 
barnyard life. This man, Rostand, has 
saturated himself with the comicality 
of la basse-cour, and touched it with 
the poetry of rural atmosphere — which, 
in quite a French fashion, seems to him 
to be synonymous with "Nature." 

In the instantaneousness with which 
it creates an atmosphere, almost from 
the first line of the prologue, and en- 
velopes us in a world of imagination, 
it is splendidly creative poetry. So also 
is its vital, impressionistic use of de- 
scriptive epithet. It is poetical in the 
field of its observation, in its enthusi- 
asm and its drollery. 

A description of the play and its 
manner of presentation on the stage 
would tend to give quite a different im- 
pression. Such a description reveals 
all its grotesquerie and clumsiness, its 
overloading with machinery and gen- 
eral submergence of the idea in its 
mere externals. 

And this would seem to be the great 
danger of the stage-production of the 
piece; but of that we are not at all 
competent to speak. It may be that 




the thing is so finely done that the 
poetry of it remains in spite of this 
mass of curiosity-provoking mechan- 
ism and external oddity, not to say 

It is, however, so obvious that it needs 
no hearing of the piece to be very sure 
that it leaves but small opportunity for 
the exercise of the actor's art. 

The Greek Drama exalted the poet. 
The actor was little more than a rhap- 
sodist, and spoke in hollow fashion 
through a great, staring, immovable 
mask. The pre-Elizabethan drama 
subjected both actor and poet to the 
tale itself. The actor became a mere 
mummer, and, deservedly enough, 
was held in no public estimation. 

The Elizabethan drama emancipated 
both actor and poet, while in the post- 
Elizabethan drama the actor Avould 
seem to be exalted at the expense of 
tale and poet alike. 

This piece would seem to reduce the 
actor to the plane of a mere mummer, 
all the fineness of the lines may give 
him opportunity for declamation, while 
it exalts all the other producing ele- 
ments — the poet, the tale and the stage- 

How Jean Coqueun pi,ays the roi,e 
i,E chien 

Cut oe hen eating, showing the 

manager, including under this last 
general appellation the work of cos- 
tuming and scene-making. 

For this reason Chanticleer must re- 
main unique, — an oddity. In deliber- 
ately sacrificing the personality and 
art of the actor, the author has thrown 
aside one of the most import- 
ant elements in dramatic pre- 
sentation, and it is not pos- 
sible that this can be success- 
fully done save as a very great 
novelty. The same kind of! 
thing could not be done manyl 
times and succeed. 

But however faulty this 
may be as a dramatic ideal 
we cannot but welcome it as 
a re-emancipation of the poet 
■ — a much-needed reassertion 
of his superiority to the actor 
For it is just this tremendous 
exaggeration of the actor's! 
share in making the drama— 
an exaggeration which is 
largely the result of the com- 
mercialism that finds the star- 
ring of a favorite profitable— \ 
it is this exaggeration of the ' 
actor's part, I say, which has 
brought playwriting to so lo^ 
a stage among us. 

Chanticleer, therefore, 11 

< » it 



every phase of its production, furnishes 
food for serious thought to the dra- 
matic and critical world. 

Of the characters, the black-bird is 
the mocking mischief-maker; the dog 
the easy-going, philosophic optimist; 
the guinea fowl the vain snob ; the hen- 
pheasant is the eternal feminine, 
Chanticleer is self-sufficient masculin- 
ity, while the gamecock plays the part 
of deceptive friend and heavy villain 

The piece opens with a prologue 

ful hen-pheasant who is also ardently 
wooed by a gamecock. 

The second act presents the most 
admired scenic effort of the piece. It 
shows the great branch of a blasted old 
pine tree stretching across the dark- 
ness of the night in the heart of the 
forest. Perched in the branches, hu- 
man size, are the birds of the night, 
and the owl proceeds to call their roll. 

These birds declaim the hymn of 
the night and then conspire among 
themselves to get rid of Chanticleer, 


which is very charming and intended 
to put the audience en rapport with the 
atmosphere of the play. The first act 
is at sunrise in the barnyard. After 
some preliminary chatter and barnyard 
gossip, Chanticleer enters, hailed as a 
very king, and, perched on the wall, 
chants a hymn to the sun. This hymn 
is a lyric of the most luxurious im- 
agery and in it the author is at his best. 
Chanticleer's recitation is interrupted 
by the sarcastic gibes of the blackbird. 
Chanticleer falls in love with a beauti- 

for, they argue, if he is destroyed who 
calls the sun to rise, there will be no 
more day, and they, as rulers of the 
night, will have uninterrupted sway. 

It is, of course, impossible for the 
audience to be sympathetically inter- 
ested in such a conflict, so that not 
only is there no magnetism of an 
actor's personality, but there is also 
no sympathy compelling neutral action 
to maintain interest. All depends on 
novelty and poetic charm. 

In the third act Chanticleer learns of 



M. Gaupaux IN THE ROI.E OE 

the conspiracy and fights a duel with 
the gamecock, killing him in a great 
battle and in spite of his prowess and 
great spurs. Chanticleer's heart is, 
however, so saddened by the treachery 
of this false friend that he loses his 
optimism. The hen-pheasant, who is 
the prize for which the duel is fought, 
dutifully confers her love upon the win- 
ner of the battle. 

This love proves to be the undoing 
of Chanticleer. In the indulgence of 
its softness, he fails to rise to greet 
the sun, and this awful catastrophe is 
the culminating tragedy of the piece! 

When the play is presented in this 
country its success in Paris and the 
wonderful stage effects, especially the 
ingenious costuming, will go far toward 
giving it immense popularity. It is 
more than doubtful, however, if so 
poetical a piece will stand translating 
very well and the charm of the lines, 
including a wealth of rhyme, will of 
necessity be lost in anything but a 
French rendering. 

As to the costuming, facts and fig- 
ures concerning it is still good news 

in Parisian journals. The public does 
not seem to tire of the number of me- 
tres of this and kilograms of that have 
gone into the construction of this and 
that piece of stage furniture. "Un coq 
de race ordinaire a environ oui, 40 a 
oui, 50 de hauteur," etc. All of which 
is very edifying and serves to feed the 
wonder of the populace. 

For nearly a decade rumors and 
stories as to the production have been 
afloat. Strange tales have been al- 
lowed to leak out from Cambo where 
M. Rostand has been at work. The 
French are past masters in the fine 
art of advertising. 

Now it is M. Edel, now it is Coque- 
lin, now it is Frohman or Massenet 
who has been seen in serious confer- 
ence with the great dramatic author. 

Again there is an important meet- 
ing between MM. Hertz, Jean Coque- 
lin, Edel and Rostand. Everything, 
the public is told, is being carried on 
with the utmost secrecy! This secrecy 
does not prevent the public from learn- 
ing that over two hundred preliminary 
sketches of the stage setting were 
made before success was reached, that 
the original model for Chanticleer is 
already sacredly guarded as a price- 
less relic, thatM. Rostand sent a dis- 
patch to M. Edel at Porte-Saint-Martin 
to the effect that "the designs of Edel 
idealize my work," and that M. Edel 
in a transport of joy requests the ori- 
ginal autograph of the dispatch and 
has it framed as the choicest souvenir 
in his studio. We are permitted to 
learn, so profound is the secrecy,, 
what vast sum the American impres- 
sario has paid for the American rights 
of production, etc., etc. 

As the result of all this cunning 
publicity the first night of the piece 
was a world event! The very scratch 
of the pen of the recluse in rural 
Cambo was heard around the world ! 

To add to what was already the 
superlative of publicity the opening 
of the piece finds the author plunged 
into two law suits, one with a Chicago 
millionaire for plagiarism and the 
other for use of certain designs. In 
fact, the play comes pretty near to 



filling the horizon of the French 
journalist. And the waves of all this 
excitement, in spite of the efforts of 
the press, are permitted to dash upon 
our own shores ! 

It is quite safe to say that Chanti- 
cleer will not be a money-losing propo- 
sition. In the meanwhile Paris is, 
for the moment, the metropolitan 
centre of the theatrical world, and all 
other places are provincial cities that 
must await their turn for as good an 
imitation of the original as may be 

All this furnishes food and to spare 
for the cynic, but that does not alter 
the fact that Rostand has again pro- 
duced a remarkable play that is at the 
same time a piece of literature. 

Le paon, the peacock 

A Prophecy for the Future 


IT has been said that prophecy is 
dead, and the kind of prophecy 
that depends for its inspiration 
upon dreams, and soothsayers, and fish- 
wives is dead, and well so. 

But there is a new, and better, proph- 
ecy alive in the world to-day — a 
prophecy founded upon reason, upon 
logic, and, perhaps also, upon intui- 
tion; and he who possesses the gift of 
this new prophecy rolls away the mys- 
terious curtain which divides the pres- 
ent from the future, and lays hold upon 
the golden thread of purpose that is in- 
terwoven with the great scheme of 
things, and there comes to him a more 
and more intimate touch and a keener 
understanding of the meaning and pur- 
poses of life. This new prophecy is so 
little like the prophecy of old that I 
hesitate even to call it prophecy, and 
much prefer the greater word, "vision." 

It takes but an instant to flash a vi- 
sion upon the imagination, but some- 
where back of this flash there must be 
a dynamo, and I wish, so far as I may, 
to offer you a prophecy flashed by the 
dynamic power of reason, and so to 
make of this vision a living, tangible 
thing, to the end that we may see, and, 
seeing, believe. 

This prophecy which I hope to focus 
for you has to do with the tremendous 
power that is destined to be exercised 
upon the world by publicity — by printed 

Printed words already bring into our 
lives an influence and a power that we 
rarely, if ever, stop to analyze. We are 
so accustomed to our daily newspapers 
and hourly mails, to cables under the 
seas and cobwebs of wires over the 
lands, that it is difficult for us to con- 
ceive that there ever was a time when 
there were no printed words; when the 

sole communication between the mem- 
bers of the human family was by word 
of mouth and limited to the reach of 
the human voice. 

Not until four hundred years ago did 
printed words begin to exert an influ- 
ence upon the world. Since then, year 
by year, the printed word has grown 
into power. Generation by generation 
the experience of man has been treas- 
ured up in these printed words, and the 
sum of each of the world's years of toil 
and joy and experience has been etched 
in this great book of human life. 

And as this volume has grown with 
the years, so also has the ability of the 
people to interpret it increased through 
broader and more universal education, 
until now the influence of printed words 
is raised to the — nth power, and they 
have become the mightiest agency of 
mankind. And, what is infinitely im- 
portant, this wonderful power of printed 
words makes for the uplifting of man- 
kind, for. the betterment of life. Car- 
lyle says, "Writing is the most mar- 
velous of all things man has devised. 
With the art of writing the true reign 
of miracles for mankind commenced." 

From printed words we gather unto 
ourselves the wisdom and experience 
of the years that have gone before. 
They bring to us visions of other ages 
and of other peoples. They are the 
moving pictures of events that would' 
otherwise be hidden in the shadows of 
the years. They flash light upon the im- 
agination, the hopes, the passions, the 
aspirations and the deeds of a younger 
world. They quicken again for us the 
heart-beats of the multitudes of an- 
other day. They speak to us of the 
despair of mankind as it sweat through 
the toiling centuries. They shriek of 
the hatred and agony of blood-stained 



war; they gibber of the loathesomeness 
of disease, and they whisper to us of 
the loves that have been the nectar of 
life since they began. 

Printed words join us to all that has 
been before ; they are the mighty links 
that bind together the centuries — the 
wireless messages from the dead to the 
living. Printed words enable each new 
generation to lay the bottom stone of 
its foundations in the still wet cement 
of the capstone of the preceding one. 

It is not, however, the greatest func- 
tion of printed words to materialize for 
us the spirits of the past,, and to tell us 
of the wonders of the years on which 
the sun has forever set, but to tell us 
also of the living, breathing, hopeful, 
joyful present. They bring home to us 
the strivings and the problems of the 
every day of our own life and time. 

No workshop is so far away, no 
problem upon which a human mind is 
at work is so intricate and so far in ad- 
vance of the time but that some inkling, 
some knowledge of it, filters to us 
through printed words, and encourage- 
ment floods back again to the worker 
from this knowledge that the world 
knows and waits. Printed words play 
upon our heartstrings with news of 
calamities at the other side of theworld, 
and printed words carry back again, 
sympathy and aid and comfort to the 

Printed words set us down beside the 
mighty deeds that are being done by 
man in every corner of the earth. They 
drop us into the great ditch that is des- 
tined to make separate continents of 
North and South America. They carry 
us over the frozen wastes with Peary to 
the apex of the earth; they set us be- 
side the physician who demonstrates a 
new victory over death ; they introduce 
us to the great parliaments of the world 
and bring us into intimate touch with 
every human endeavor. They broaden 
put the human mind until its interests 
and its sympathies reach around the 
world, and until we are in a sense one 

Printed words are doing more than 
any other human force to hasten the 
great millennium when we shail all be 

brothers and the interest of one shall 
become the interest of all. 

As a concrete evidence of their power 
for good there is abroad in the world 
to-day a new conception of honor and 
honesty in business. Even within the 
past five years the whele people have 
assumed a higher attitude toward thine 
and mine. The searchlight of publicity 
has been turned into the dark, ratty 
corners of commercial life, and there 
has been a scurrying of unclean meth- 
ods and dishonest graft as brings a 
saner and sunnier spirit and observance 
into the traffic of the world. 

This has become a house-cleaning 
time for the great corporations. The 
window curtains, which have made se- 
cret their places of business, have come 
down and the sunshine of publicity 
floods in ; the soft rugs that have muf- 
fled the footfalls of those who crept 
stealthily away from the vaults with 
stolen gains have been hung upon the 
line ; the secret ledgers have been given 
to the flames, and the burglar-alarm 
has been once more put in order. All 
of this is only one manifestation of the 
tremendous power for good of the 
printed word. 

Everyone here is interested in some 
manner in this great power of printed 
words — in publicity. Publicity means 
advertising, and in their final analysis 
all printed words are advertising. 

The most interesting possibilities of 
advertising are connected with com- 
mercial life — with the marketing of 
things — for here it touches us closest to 
our pocketbooks. There is no other 
field for the use of printed words which 
has widened so enormously within the 
past few years as has this one. Even 
yet, however, the commercial world is 
not awake to the tremendous power of 
this giant of traffic — this mighty builder 
of business; but the alarm clock is set 
and the appointed hour draws near. 

Here, then, is the prophecy for the 
future : 

I have a vision, and it is of a day 
when practically the whole business of 
the earth will be conducted with the 
printed word ; when every commercial 
need of mankind will be told in print, 



and when all the goods of the earth 
will be offered in print; when the ter- 
rific waste of time and effort, the 
weary traveling up and down in the 
land with mountains of samples, will 
no longer be known, and when the 
salesman shall no longer be a wan- 
derer on the face of the earth, and may 
once more live the life of a sane and in- 
telligent being; when he who has goods 
to sell will offer them in black and 
white, and with such a keen perception 
of exact proportion and of truth as will 
enable the buyer to cover his needs, 
with no chance of disappointment ; 
when the buyer will state his needs, 
also in black and white, with such a 
clear discrimination as will leave no 
room for misunderstanding. 

Have you ever seen a disturbed ant- 
hill, and noticed the thousands of ants 
scurrying all about, apparently without 
any sense of direction or purpose, every 
one of them on the run, climbing over 
and under one another, and accomplish- 
ing nothing whatever with aU their 
haste and effort? 

If the earth could be put under a 
microscope I imagine our commercial 
edifice would appear quite as disturbed 
as the ant-hill, and the traveling men 
who sell the output of our factories and 
mills and stores would seem much like 
the ants. No doubt it has occurred to 
you, as it has to me, that in the final 
equation of business, traveling sales- 
men create no added demand — that 
consumption finally depends only upon 
the buying capacity of the people. If 
all the traveling men were taken off the 
road, the demand for goods and the 
power to consume would remain there 
just the same, — and here there is an- 
other flash of the same prophecy — a vi- 
sion of the traveling salesman of the 

Let me give you my ideal of a travel- 
ing salesman. We send to a half-dozen 
or more of the great publications of the 
country an electro five and a half by 
eight inches, which tells in terse, con- 
vincing and truthful words of the goods 
we have to sell. The great printing 
presses are set in motion ; barrels of ink 
and miles upon miles of paper are fed 

into them ; and upon a given day not 
one, not ten, not a hundred, but mil- 
lions of salesmen are offering our goods 
to the world. 

These salesmen invade the great 
cities ; they walk with the mailman into 
the high buildings; they pass through 
the outer offices, and no office boy pre- 
sumes to ask their names or business ; 
unchallenged, they invade the inner 
sanctum of business and stand at the 
desk of the man who does, and talk to 
him of our goods in our own words and 
in our own way. They enter the pala- 
tial homes of the rich and sit in the 
beautiful libraries, and in hours of leis- 
ure speak of our plant and the goods it 
produces. They swarm in the smaller 
cities and towns and hamlets, and 
wherever there are people who have 
use for our goods there they are pres- 
ent. They ride in the rural delivery 
wagons through storm and sunshine 
over all the roads of the country, stop- 
ping at the comfortable farm firesides, 
and bringing to these people a touch of 
the greater and busier world outside, 
and a knowledge of and a desire for the 
goods we are making. They hail the 
miners in the far fastnesses of the 
mountains ; they make interest with the 
woodmen in the depths of the forest; 
they follow the wagon trails into the 
deserts, and they go down to the sea 
with fishermen and sponge-gatherers. 
Another week and they are afloat on all 
the seas, and, shortly, in all the world 
wherever one or two are gathered to- 
gether, or where a man may be who 
reads the language, there these sales- 
men are counted present and every- 
where they tell the story of our busi- 
ness and of the value of our goods, and 
these salesmen are Printed Words. 

These salesmen send no salary de- 
mands to our offices ; they forward no 
expense accounts to us ; they carry no 
loads of samples ; they pay no railroad 
fares and no hotel bills ; they entertain 
no buyers ; they graft neither upon us 
nor upon our customers ; there is no 
misrepresentation of our business or of | 
our wares ; our undertakings are pre 
sented to the world on the same plane|j 
of honor and integrity of purpose that 



we have adopted as a standard for our 
own personal dealings — and again I say 
these salesmen are PRINTED WORDS. 

Is this vision Utopian? Does it seem 
to be only a speculation of the imag- 
ination? If so, we have failed to note 
many things which point with definite 
and unerring finger to the coming of 
this very thing. 

Even during the past ten years there 
has been such a wonderful evidence of 
the growing power and use of printed 
words in the business life of the world 
as staggers the imagination. 

What is the significance of the enor- 
mous number of new publications which 
have come into existence during the 
past decade? Why have many of them 
jumped, even in a few months, to a cir- 
culation unbelievable a few years ago? 
Why are the older publications print- 
ing twice and three times the number 
of pages at one-half the subscription 
price of ten years ago? Why are 
the circulations doubling within the 
changes of the moon, and why have 
newspapers grown in number and cir- 
culation with each succeeding day, and 
so increased in size and space that the 
Sunday editions are a tax to the mind' 
and a burden to the soul? What is the 
meaning of circulations running into 

There is one reason and one meaning 
for all this, and just one : It is because 
of the increased use and power of 
printed words in the world's traffic. 

The publishing business of the world 
has been revolutionized — actually re- 
versed — during the past few years by 
this influence. Originally, magazines 
were printed and sold for the fiction 
they contained, and the advertising was 
incidental. To-day they are valuable 
by reason of the advertising they con- 
tain, and the fiction is incidental. 

These publications remind me of the 
definition of a peninsula which I learned 
when a boy — they are a small body of 
reading matter almost entirely sur- 
rounded by advertising. 

No wonder that Mr. Dooley wonders 
when publishers will get over their 
foolishness, anyway, and cut out the 
reading matter altogether. 

If further proof were needed of the 
growing use, power and influence of 
printed words, we would find it in gov- 
ernment reports. The United States is 
in the business of carrying printed and 
written words. In 1880 it collected 
thirty-three million dollars for this ser- 
vice. In 1908 it collected one hundred 
and ninety-two million dollars, and, 
mind you, during this period letter 
postage had been reduced from three 
cents to two cents, and the rate on 
printed words from four cents per 
pound to one cent per pound. 

The wonderful growth of the mail- 
order business is another concrete evi- 
dence. These mail-order houses employ 
no traveling salesmen, they show no 
samples of their wares and they fatten 
no middlemen. There are two of these 
great mail-order houses in Chicago 
alone, each doing an annual business 
of many millions of dollars. One of 
them, established only fourteen years, 
mails every business day of the year 
twenty-two thousand catalogues of 
twelve hundred pages each, and it has 
six million customers on its books to- 
day. These houses sell nearly every 
implement, goods and supplies used in 
the world, and all of these are offered 
in no other way than in printed words 
and pictures, and these houses have sat- 
isfied customers and a reputation for 
integrity and honest dealing in every 
hamlet in the world. 

And all of this evidence of the great 
trade wind that is driving the ships of 
commerce out of the stormy seas of a 
mistaken system of traffic into the 
smoother channels and harbors of 
printed words. 

There are other and fundamental rea- 
sons why the traffic of the world will 
eventually be conducted in written and 
printed words. 

When business is so done it brings 
the producer and consumer into imme- 
diate touch, so that each may know and 
respect the needs of the other. It means 
enormous economies, for it eliminates 
the middleman, and so lowers the cost 
of the goods to the consumer by the 
amount of his profit. It cuts out the 
jobber, who now stands at the cross- 



roads and takes toll, and puts in his 
stead storage and shipping stations. 

It puts a printed price on goods 
which represents mere cost of produc- 
tion plus the small percentage of one 
profit, and this price will be known to 
be the same to all. It takes a broad- 
axe and chops up the fossilized remains 
of that hoary old stunt of a "list price, 
with ten, five and two off." 

No system of traffic can be perma- 
nent which passes commodities through 
the hands of two to five profit-absorb- 
ing merchants between the producer 
and the consumer, and which thus com- 
pels the consumer to pay double and 
treble, and sometimes even five times, 
the first cost of the goods. 

But there is need of something 
broader and deeper than all this. Not 
so much would be gained by turning 
the commercial world away from a 
wasteful, extravagant and mistaken 
method of traffic unless this change 
were freighted also with a great uplift 
in the ethics of trade. 

Here, after all, lies the great power 
and the final proof of the universal ap- 
plication of printed words to the ex- 
change of the commodities of the earth. 

When the world's business is pre- 
sented and concluded in black and 
white, nearly every opportunity for 
misrepresentation will be eliminated. 
We have all noticed that the less care- 
ful a man is of his faith, the more he 
hedges on putting his representations 
down in black and white. With this 
more scientific system of traffic in force, 
the expression, "his word is as good as 
his bond," will be obsolete, for both 
will mean exactly the same thing. His 
word will be patterned after his bond, 
and not his bond written to confirm to 
his word. 

We get but a slight glimpse in the 
printed word of to-day of the enormous 
commercial field it will eventually 
cover, but even now a new standard of 
business ethics is being created by this 
influence. A new religion of business is 
abroad in the marts of trade. Even now 
the better publications offer their pages 
for the printed words only of those 
whose businesses are known to be hon- 

est ; and the lines are drawn closer and 
closer which will finally drive the fraud 
and the faker into the outer world of 
personal solicitation. The list of busi- 
nesses whose printed words you find in 
the best publications has already be- 
come something of a roll of honor, and 
these very businesses will themselves 
become more and more careful as to 
the company their printed words keep 
in these publications. 

Then, too, every day brings with it 
a broader interpretation of business — 
an added dignityto these printed words. 
They are beginning to show that the 
business man has vision, and the best 
of these printed words have in them 
an appeal to the imagination, a "some- 
thing" about them, that reads an uplift 
into commercial intercourse. 

The day is almost here when the best 
of all the world's products will be of- 
fered in print, and when the best of 
the world's business men will so offer 
them. When this day does actually 
come, the logic of circumstance will 
force all men who make good goods, 
and who barter them honestly, to set 
the value and character of their wares 
also to printed words, and the channels 
of commerce will then be closed to 
shoddy goods and shoddy merchants. 

We have a right to be proud that 
America has been the first to catch this 
vision, and is showing the way to the 
east of the world in this new and better 
science of traffic. Great commercial 
states have always been centers of civil- 
ization, and centers of those forces 
which keep civilization alive and which 
lead it ever upward. Commerce unifies 
the human race. Every social, ethical 
and economic problem which clamors 
for solution to-day is bound up with 
this very exchange of commodities, an 
exchange which is based more and 
more upon the printed word. It is safe| 
to say that our ideal and our ethics, no 
less than our standard of living, are in- 
fluenced more largely by the broad dis- 
semination of business information 
through printed words than upon the 
circulation of idealistic or ethical lit- 

And now, what does this prophecy ofj 



this great power of printed words mean 
to New England, for our own state and 
city and for ourselves? 

Printed words will carry to the peo- 
ple everywhere a better conception of 
the wonderful manufacturing activity 
of New England ; they will make New 
England-made goods a standard of 
value and quality throughout the 
world ; and, if we will it, they will also 
make the New England business man a 
standard for honesty, integrity and fair 
dealing wherever in all the earth trade 
and barter prevail. 

Printed words will tell the world of 
the delight of New England summers ; 
of the bays and sounds, the islands 
and rocks, in our wonderful shore line ; 
of our breezes, loaded by old ocean with 
a new vitality; of the shimmer of the 
sea and the slow pulse of the tides. 
They will sing of the perfection of 
beauty in our valleys and hills and 
mountains ; they will speak of the hush 
and mystery and restfulness of our 
woods and lakes. And with these lures 
New England will become, as she de- 
serves to become, the summer play- 

ground and resting-place for all those 
who are weary and heavy laden. 

Printed words will*plant our aban- 
doned farms and fields to orchards, un- 
til in blossoming time the air will be 
as full of falling petals as of snowflakes 
in December; and these blossoming or- 
chards will lie on thehillsides like snow- 
banks touched to pink and purple by 
the sunshine. 

Printed words will make the stately 
pine and spruce and hemlock to 
stand again in the wide places made 
naked by the ruthless axe of the 

Printed words will make our cities 
better and more healthful places in 
which to live; they will give us better 
schools and playgrounds and happier 
play-fellows; they will bring us more 
sanitary homes, cleaner and lighter fac- 
tories, and, together with all these, will 
elevate the quality of our citizenship. 
And, finally, printed words will bring 
us the gift of prophecy, and, with this, 
broader minds, greater hearts and a 
more perfect understanding of God's 
purposes and ways. 

From an address by Mr. Graves at a recent Pilgrim Publicity Association dinner 



WONG, the embodiment of 
placid misery, occupied one 
corner of the patio, his flimsy 
unlined clothing hanging damply about 
his yellow, steamed-out flesh. 

Aunt Lydia, maintaining the dignity 
of isolation in so far as a little sixteen- 
foot patio would permit, had taken pos- 
session of the corner diagonally op- 
posite. It was their utter lack even of 
the idlest pretense of occupation that 
provoked Nannette's amusement as she 
suddenly appeared in the doorway. 

"I am surprised, Aunt Lydia, that 
you and Wong should set me such an 
example !" she exclaimed, mockingly. 

The dark interior behind her con- 
trasted sharply with the white, molten 
sun-light that flooded the open center 
of the patio. A large sombrero and a 
riding crop held lightly in one hand 
added a picturesque touch to the other- 
wise almost home-spun simplicity of 
her toilet. A girl who could always 
achieve smartness of appearance in the 
heat of a Mexican midsummer and with 
the limited resources of a semi-camp 
wardrobe seemed possessed of an al- 
most superhuman competency. 

Somewhere from the interior could 
be heard the restless turnings of a bed- 
ridden invalid. 

"Water!" he called querulously. 
Wong shuffled a little forward with his 
slippered feet and Aunt Lydia straight- 
ened herself in her chair: both looked 
at Nannette. But she only shook her 

"Hush !" she whispered, earnestly. 

No one spoke or moved. The in- 
valid fell into incoherent mutterings 
that finally lapsed into a long-drawn 
sigh as he turned again and fell into the 
stertorous breathing of a heavy sleep. 

"He does not wish water. He was 

thinking of the men at the digging." 

"Does not need water!" exclaimed 
Aunt Lydia, impatiently. "He needs 
everything. He needs someone at his 
side constantly. He needs incessant 
and loving attention — everything that 
he is not receiving." 

Nannette's face whitened wearily. 
"If you knew how hard it is to withhold 
those things, Auntie, you would not 
talk so. To the very best of my knowl- 
edge he needs just what he is receiv- 
ing — absolue repose, broken with no 
disturbing attentions beyond the re- 
quirements of necessity. It would be 
much easier for me to flutter over his 
bedside night and day, but I know 
that it is not the best way." 

"That is your modern theory, Nan- 
nette, and I may be old-fashioned, but 
when I am dying I want people to 
show their affection, if they have any, 
by at least being within ear-shot." 

"Aunt Lydia, how can you ! But 
there is no use of our arguing." 

"That is true. It always ends with 
my proving that I am right and with 
you having your own way. Where are 
you going, Nannette?" 

"To the digging." 

"To the digging! It is impossible 
that you really think of such a thing. 
Even the natives avoid the trip in the 
heat of the day. Besides, your father 
needs you here." 

"I think that father needs me on the 
digging." Aunt Lydia burst out laugh- 
ing. The idea of Nannette being of 
any service on the digging was too ab- 
surd for further rejoinder. 

Glancing from the elder to the 
younger woman, one could easily see 
that they were of the same lineage 
and, indeed, that there was a very 
striking personal resemblance between 



In the patio 

them; but one had been trained to the 
limitations with which an older school 
surrounded the idea of the well-bred 
woman, while her more youthful 
counterpart had grown up to the 
largeness and freedom with which the 
new century surrounds the same ideal. 

"Nannette, you are always absurd; 
but it is not necessary also to be stub- 
born. I forbid you to go." 

Nannette gravely concealed her 
amusement while, just to be good-na- 
tured, she drew from her elderly rela- 
tive the wholly unnecessary permissive 

Ten thousand dollars a mile was the 

bonus to be paid by the. Mexican gov- 
ernment for the completion of the 
Yaqui railroad within the specified 
time, and it had not seemed at first to 
be a very difficult proposition. 

The country was fairly level, the 
mileage not great and the money and 
materials amply provided by the 
American capitalists who were pushing 
the enterprise. 

But that great, gray desert where 
King Cactus reigned would not yield 
up its dominion without a struggle. 

Sandstorm after standstorm obliter- 
ated in an hour the work of weeks. The 
pitiless drought rendered the surface 



as light as sifted ashes. The wagon 
wheels sank to the hubs. Men and 
animals staggered and failed under 
their burdens. Peon labor was not 
American labor, and Mexican dollars 
were not American dollars. Time 
dragged on and still that heart-break- 
ing stretch of treeless plain remained 
unbridged by the line of gleaming 

It was a struggle of positive forces 
against negative, of life against death, 
of the burning desert against human 
brain and brawn, and it was becoming 
more and more evident daily that the 
issue was to be fought out to the bitter 
end. Agents of rival lines appeared 
from time to time, shook hands with 
Temple, the supervising engineer, con- 
gratulated him and departed with a 
grim smile. 

Then came the sunstroke that con- 
fined the energetic American to his 
house, while the hours stretched into 
days and the days into weeks. Anxiety 
brought on fever, and Aunt Lydia, who 
cared not a rap for the road, was justi- 
fied in her serious view of his condi- 
tion. If she could have had her way 
she would have made a bonfire of all 
their Mexican belongings, including 
the pretty little adobe house that they 
had built, paid Wong, the necessary 
but (by her) detested Chinese servant, 
and packed the invalid abroad the first 
northerly-bound train. There she 
would know what to do and how to do 
it. Here, to her inexpressible annoy- 
ance, Nannette was a far more adapt- 
able and efficient manager than herself. 
Indeed Nannette's efficiency and her 
scorn of inefficiency of all kinds seemed 
as masculine as the utter freedom of 
her comings and goings and of her 
opinions on all subjects, from the new 
psychology to divorce. And yet she 
was an arrant coquette, this same Nan- 
nette, and in type, to the masculine 
mind, at least, more feminine than her 
more conventionally lady-like aunt. 
To her father, particularly since the 
death of his wife, she was beyond the 
reach of criticism, the object of an al- 
most religious worship. 

Out at the great cut, which they had 

come to call "the digging," big Alex- 
andra was in charge. He knew his men 
and how to manage them, but of rail- 
roads his ideas were dim and hazy 
enough and his will to do was subject 
to intervals of sulky stupidity, during 
which little went forward. 

It was high noon when Nannette ar- 
rived on the scene, familiar enough to 
her, but it seemed very strange now 
that she had come to try in some way 
to tak$ her father's place. Would they 
recognize her authority, or would any 
attempt at its assertion result in the 
sulks on the part of Alexandro? Al- 
ready her presence had attracted atten- 
tion. To the quick, jealous southern 
minds of the men might it not appear 
that she had come to spy on them? 
Had she not already done irretrievable 

Meanwhile the tropical sun blazed 
down with an almost intolerable fierce- 
ness, and one thought drove all else 
from the mind of the generous girl, a 
thought of pity for the suffering men 
and beasts alike. 

Dismounting from her wilted and 
panting pony she made her way to the 
tank car that contained the supply of 
water. It was burning hot, and 
scorched her hand as she touched it. 

Big Alexandro, thinking that she 
wished a drink, lumbered up and drew 
a pail, producing a tin from which to 
drink. Strongly alkaline and stained 
with rust, the water was rendered still 
less grateful by its little less than boil- 
ing heat. Still if the men must drink 
it, it would not do for her to refuse, and 
she put her lips to the cup which the 
peon leader offered, smiling her thanks 
and addressing him in the pretty, lisp- 
ing Spanish which she had learned. 

Would he not scrape away the sand 
and dig a small hole in the firm earth? 
If the signorita wished, it should be 
done. No, not there but down among 
the men in the digging. 

So, in the true peon style, the big, 
simple, unquestioning fellow called 
aside enough men to dig an entrench- 
ment and made the little excavation 
where she wished. 

Then Nannette, enthusiastic and 



anxious for the success of her experi- 
ment, had them draw the great, galvan- 
ized iron pail full of water and place 
it carefully in her little well where she 
shielded it with her own bright sun- 

The men returned to their work smil- 
ing, but not unkindly, while Nannette 
watched over her improvised well. 
They thought her but a child at play. 

But Nannette knew what she was 
about. The evaporation from the sur- 
face of the little imitation pool was 
very rapid in the intense heat and, pro- 
tected by the earth that surrounded it, 
the water retained the coolness thus 

Several times she tried it. Then she 
called Alexandro and held the cup to 
him with a smile whose witchery was 
the same in all races and tongues. 

No sooner had the cool refreshment 
touched his lips than he withdrew it 
in astonishment. 

"Signorita, it is a miracle!" he said. 

"Let the men drink," she answered. 
And they came, one by one, the water 
gurgling down their dry, parched 
throats as the first rain that breaks the 
dry season through the garden borders 
in the patio. And as they drank Nan- 
nette served, and when the pail was 
emptied they brought more and all 
the afternoon beneath her big, green 
sunshade Nannette remained at her 

Toward the close of the day, when 
the sun, like a huge silver ball, hung 
low in the western sky, big Alexandro 
drew near, and it was obvious from 
his awkwardness that he wished to con- 
vey some manner of thanks for himself 
and his men. But Nannette seized her 
opportunity and anticipated him. 

"Some days, Alexandro, very much 
more work is done than others." 

"It is true, Signorita. This day much 
has been done." 

"But to-morrow is a Fiesta, and the 
men will not work." 

"It is true, Signorita." 

"And there are many Fiestas and 
much work, but not many days. Soon 
the great men will come, — the governor 
of Chihuahua, perhaps the president 

himself and many men from my 
country. They will come to see the 
railroad finished, but it will not be 
finished. They will ask us about it and 
we will say the men went to Fiestas 
and worked little on some days. But 
if the men work well, the road will be 
finished and we will say, the men 
worked so well that all is done. They 
even staid from the Fiestas that it 
might be completed. And there will 
be a great banquet and each shall be 

For some time he did not seem in- 
clined to answer, then the big fellow 
laid aside his tool and looked down 
into her eyes and said very slowly: 

"Why have they not told us, Sig- 
norita?" The question was simple and 
it was a simple-minded fellow who 
asked it. Yet Nannette did not find 
it easy to answer. Somehow she felt 
that any departure from the truth 
would only bring into stronger relief 
the too evident distrust of the manage- 

"I have told you," she said at last. 

Again the big peon reflected. 

"It is true, Signorita, and it is not 
impossible that the men will work even 
on the Fiestas, if — " 

"I will be here every day," she added 
quickly, noting his embarrassed hesi- 

"Then it will be a Fiesta here and 
we will need no other. Even the 
padre would say so." 

The color crept into Nannette's 
cheeks, in spite of herself. No cavalier 
of the old school could have turned a 
finer compliment or done it more gal- 

And how often Nannette had looked 
at him and shuddered. What an animal 
he had seemed as she looked at him and 
the others through her father's eyes. 

Many years of experience in Spanish- 
American countries had led John 
Temple to look upon the native labor 
as an unmitigated evil — a thing to be 
tolerated, cajoled, gotten along with 
from necessity, and, whenever possible, 
handled without gloves. He would have 
been entirely convinced that if the 
men knew of his present straits not a 



soul of them would remain at work 
for a single day. Many a hard experi- 
ence had seemed to justify his opinion, 
but to Nannette now, warm with the 
sense of acknowledged kindness, how 
different it all seemed — and how" 
strange that she should bestandingthere 
blushing at a compliment from the lips 
of this great, hairy-chested fellow. 
And how human and trustworthy he 
seemed ! 

Before she realized what she was 
doing she was telling him of her 
father's illness and of the dire straits 
of the work, and the need for the 
straining of every nerve. She told him 
of the distance to be covered, and the 
amount of earth yet to be removed and 
the number of days in which it must 
be done. She saw him stoop and pick 
up his tool and pat the earth with it, 
and as she continued to talk she saw 
his eyes brighten and his muscles 
heave, and then he leaned on his tool 
and stared and listened. And when she 
had finished her throat was dry and 
her limbs weak and she could have 
burst into tears of over-wrought feel- 
ing. And Alexandro without a word 
led her to her pony and assisted her 
to mount and said : 

"It will be late soon, Signorita," — 
that and no more, but there was a soft- 
ness in his gruff voice and a manly 
flash in his eye that filled Nannette 
with a joyous but self-humiliating 
sense of victory. 

Day after day throughout the heated 
hours Nannette stood by her strange 
little well in the desert, and foot by 
foot the lines of gleaming steel drew 
nearer together. 

At night she would enter her father's 
room and take his hand and he would 
rouse himself and know that she was 
there and she would remain until he fell 
again into that half-sleep which had 
come to seem like his normal condition. 

Nannette gazed eagerly at the sil- 
ver spike. To see it driven at the ap- 
pointed day and hour had been her 
father's one thought for nearly two 
years. Then she stooped and touched 
his forehead with her lips. It was the 
night before the Fiesta. Out by the 

digging the desert glistened like sands 
of silver beneath the August moon 
that yet for all its flood of light could 
not quench the brilliancy of the stars 
that kept watch over that great, mois- 
tureless plain : constellations unfamiliar 
to our northern eyes that hung their 
mystic signs in the vast, unbroken 
azure. Nannette from the open case- 
ment of her chamber gazed long on 
the wonderful tropical night, until its 
vastness reduced her petty, human 
cares and anxieties to less than nothing- 
ness. Even prayer seemed like an in- 
trusion on a silence that was itself the 
embodiment of all prayer. How long 
she sat thus she could not have told; 
when she became aware that for some 
time she had been listening to a sound, 
distant yet clear, broken yet rhythmical. 
It defied identification. It was not to 
be recognized as any of the usual night 
sounds. It was not Wong shuffling 
home from some nocturnal errand. It 
was not the night boldness of the 
coyotes out on the plain. It was not 
the sentry at the little presidio, nor the 
neighbors closing their houses for the 
night, nor the music of a dance at 
the public house. It was not the sick- 
man turning in his bed, nor the creak- 
ing rock, rock of Aunt Lydia's chair 
that, like her own, had held its watch- 
ing figure through so many of these 
anxious nights. 

It was more remote than any of 
these, and yet there was a familiarity 
about it, too. Clank, clank, clank; 
scrape, scrape, scrape. Nannette 
leaped to her feet and strained forward 
through the open window. There is 
no other sound like that, — the sound of 
iron on iron and the moving of heavy 
bodies : the men were working on the 
digging ! 

Yes, out on the digging two hun- 
dred pairs of brawny arms were swing- 
ing bar and shovel, sledge and pick, 
working as only men can who have 
been moved by a noble impulse andj 
who know that the rising of the sun 
shall see the completion of a great en- 
terprise. They were preparing a 
Fiesta for our lady of the brown som- 


The External Feminine 


"I am going out to get a gray cloth 
suit to wear with this." My friend 
held up a coral blouse of some soft 
silk and I realized that at last her 
sense of color was keenly alive. 
There was nothing bizarre in the 
statement. She had the keynote of a 
color scheme and was about to de- 
velop the composition which, when 
completed, consisted of: A soft, gray 
coat and skirt trimmed with black 
braid and black and steel buttons, a 
black straw poke bonnet with coral 
ribbon trimmings and green leaves 
finished with black ribbon — black 
gloves — coral silk stockings and low, 
black shoes. 

This mode of proceeding is a very 
satisfactory one for the well-dressed 
woman to adopt. One may get the idea 
for an entire outfit from .a piece of 
braid trimming in which one very 
often finds colors of a very exotic 
blend. As the day of free thinking in 
fashions is at hand one may take their 
cue from any form of color scheme. 
One of the novelties that will be 
brought out in the spring for linen 
suits is a kite-shaped coat. This gar- 
ment is more or less of a compromise 
between a long and a short jacket, for 
the designers are grappling with the 
coat problem. Some will make only 
short coats, others cling to the long, 
sweeping line, and the result is, may 
be, entirely satisfactory — a-go-as-you- 
please race in which each individual 
wears what she thinks is. becoming. 

So between the two strictly drawn 
lines has appeared this compromise of 
the coat. It makes up well in serge 
or any of the light-weight woolens as 
well as in linen and crash. The kite- 
shaped coat in detail has a trim, short 
front, single breasted, which buttons up 

into the collar bone, and immediately 
after the linen leaves the lowest but- 
ton it begins to slope slightly down- 
ward. It crosses the hips, and slopes 
down the middle of the back in a nar- 
row panel until it falls below the knees. 
Instead of this panel being cut to a 
point it is squared off, and thus you 
get the name kite. This kite-shaped 
coat has been brought out by the 
American manufacturers, from models 
sent over from Paris. 

It is worn with a plaited skirt which 
is not cut out very short, because if it 
were it would spoil the effect of the 
coat. The front of the coat is left un- 
fastened to show the irrepressible frill. 
This latter accessory will be seen on 
all the new blouses. It is made of fin- 
est material and finished with a hem- 
stitched hem and a whiff of good lace. 

There is another short coat that will 
be brought out in the new linen and 
light woolen suitings. This one is 
single breasted and fastens a few in- 
ches below the belt. From the point 
it slopes away to a point on the hip 
about six inches below the waist, and 
then slopes up again in the back to a 
point lower than the one in front. This 
coat is rather difficult to make because 
it does not fit into the waist line with 
any degree of snugness, as did short 
coats of other days. It must be ex- 
tremely narrow over the hips, because 
one's figure remains on these lines. 

New Sleeves 

One could talk forever about sleeves. 
There is a wide variety: The peasant 
type is most in evidence and by 
peasant the dressmaker means the 
rather straight sleeve that is cut with- 
out armhole and is one with the shoul- 
ders. The touch that makes this sleeve 





genuine is the square patch underneath. 
This is put on in diamond shape and 
its edges are stitched over those of the 

The long sleeve that goes by the 
name of peasant is a wrinkled affair 
that is seen on many of the peasant 
costumes worn by men. It is a more 
or less familiar sleeve in light opera, 
but we have rarely seen it applied to 
women's clothes. 

This sleeve reaches to the wrist, is 
cut in one piece, and is stitched up 
the underarm after the fulness has 
been folded in to make the correct 
length. It is merely a primitive way of 
adjusting a long, almost straight, piece 
of cloth. 

In some of the new gowns it will be 
made of white chiffon or silk, cashmere 
or satin. The wrist will be finished 
by a tight five-inch cuff of massive 
peasant embroidery, and the kimono 
cap, or regulation peasant sleeve, will 
be of brilliant color to match the gown 
and bordered with the embroidery. 

One gown of Balkan blue silk cash- 
mere has a skirt slightly gathered at 
hips and back, a five-inch band of em- 
broidery at the hem, a ten-inch band 
of black satin above this. The bodice 
is cut in a wide, straight piece, with a 
rounded opening at the neck, edged 
with embroidery. 

There is a wide-boned girdle of black 
satin and a flat collar of it at the neck, 
below the embroidery. Above the em- 
broidery is a three-inch guimpe of 
white silk cashmere, which is matched 
by full sleeves that end at the wrist in 
three-inch embroidery. 

Revolutionary as this sleeve sounds 
against those which we are wearing, 
they will be in first fashion — either 
they or their kind. 

Another fashionable sleeve is rather 
straight, fitted to the arm, flares over 
the hand, and is covered at the top by 
a folded kimono cap of the gown ma- 
terial, edged with embroidery. 

A sleeve that looks almost like an old- 
fashioned bishop sleeve is returning for 
summer gowns, but it can only be used 
when there is a peasant sleeve of the 
gown color over it. These drop nearly 


Effective combination oe ci,oth 
and eoui,ard 

to the elbow, and the full, sheer under- 
sleeve reaches to the wrist, where it is 
gathered into a half-inch band of lace 
or colored embroidery and fastened 
over with Irish crochet buttons. 

New Long Sleeves 

Has every woman noticed the in- 
coming fashion of coat-of-mail sleeves 
in evening gowns? There is no one 
day on which one can put the finger 
and say : This fashion began here. For 
it slipped in on us unawares. It is ex- 
cessively pretty, and, oh, such a relief 
to the onlooker, after seasons of bared, 
bony arms. The coat of mail contrib- 
utes a curve of its own, and there is 



something about its suppleness that 
suggests grace. It fills up the waste 
places, and does not suggest early les- 
sons in anatomy, as the uncovered 
arm does when it needs cocoa butter 
and massage. The mass of Americans 
have notably bad arms in combination 
with very good necks, and so this ad- 
mirable new fashion of disclosing the 
beauty of one and concealing the de- 
fects of the other is a step forward in 
the right direction. The only objection 
to a long, tight sleeve for evening wear 
is the short white gloves that have al- 
ways been abruptly put against it ; but 
the coat-of-mail sleeve does not allow 
such a harsh and striking contrast. It 
flares slightly after it leaves the wrist, 
and reaches almost, if not quite, to the 
knuckle. Beneath it is worn as soft a 
glove as harmony allows — suede when- 
ever possible. 

These sleeves are definitely mediae- 
val, but they did not arrive with the 
first fashions that were revived from 
that brutish and picturesque epoch in 
the world's history. Even the best- 
dressed women, backed by artistic de- 
signers, have adopted the straight lines 
of the one-piece thirteenth-century 
frock with a twentieth-century decol- 
letage and mere shoulder strap instead 
of sleeves. 

This was incorrect, and after women 
became tired of mediaeval fashions in 
this form they bethought themselves 
of harking back to old plates and doing 
the thing right. Therefore, the really 
well-dressed ones have looked like 
feminine Crusaders, lacking only the 
scarlet cross on the breast. Not only 
have they adopted the coat-of-mail 
sleeves that nearly cover the hands, 
but the decolletage of their gowns is 
high at the back and sweeping round 
in front. The sleeve comes from be- 
neath the armhole of the bodice, and is 
attached to the lining. The armhole of 
the outer fabric is rather small and 
edged with a color, or, better still, has 
as a finish the fabric in a fold. The 
material used for the sleeves is not a 
novel one; we have had it with us all 
season in its glittering mesh. It is of 
gold, silver, aluminum, copper and 

steel. Any one of these will do for the 
new coat-of-mail sleeves. 

There is a lining of net, but nothing 
more opaque. The sleeve really fits 
the arm and is a distinct addition to 
the gown. The fashion of wearing 
bracelets over it is thoroughly bad and 
undesirable. It is not in keeping with 
any part of the costume. 

Chiffon for Every-Day Gowns 

Chiffon is coming into its own again. 
You may call it mousseline, chiffon 
cloth or chiffon. It makes little differ- 
ence by what name it goes so you get 
the material. It will be widely worn 
for all manner of frocks this spring, 
and there is a strong movement afoot 
to popularize it for gowns that are 
more or less informal. It is less ex- 
pensive than mousseline or chiffon 
cloth and wears as well. If a woman 
wants to make a really durable blouse 
out of any of these weaves, she should 
double the material. It looks and 
wears twice as well. If she will put a 
slightly full interlining of it, the out- 
side lends itself more happily to treat- 
ment. If one uses a soft, full lining of 
messaline, peau de cynge or surah, this 
doubling of the material is not so nec- 
essary. All these thin blouses are go- 
ing to be made quite full. There is 
even a tendency to sag over the tight, 
boned belt or the high belt of the skirt 

Everywhere one sees a strong lean- 
ing toward the old-fashioned laces, 
such as Bruges, Honiton and Escurial. 
The newer princess lace is also re- 
vived. All these are used for the shal- 
low, collarless yokes of these mousse- 
line blouses. The woman who has an 
economical turn of mind could easily 
cover her soft silk or satin blouse with 
a gathered or smocked drapery of 
mousseline in the same tone, taking 
off the collar of silk and either going 
without one or substituting one of lace. 
The covering is put over the sleeves 
and gathered or smocked into the 
wrist. If one wants color, one could 
put a cross-stitch embroidery in har- 
monizing tones of floss at the edges of 
the mousseline, or trim the under 
blouse with bands of vivid embroidery. 


It is interesting to learn that Jose- 
phine Preston Peabody (Mrs. Lionel 
Marks of Cambridge, Mass.) has been 
awarded a prize of three hundred 
pounds for a play submitted in a com- 
petition arranged by the governors of 
the Shakespeare Memorial Theatre at 
Stratford-on-Avon, for a piece, "pref- 
erably poetic and romantic," to be pre- 
sented at the annual Shakespearian 
festival in April and May. 

The title of the winning play is "The 
Piper," and it is based on the familiar 
tale of "The Pied Piper of Hamelin." 
The author, however, has eliminated 
the familiar supernatural features -of 
the old tale and given it increased in- 

It is certainly pleasing that this sig- 
nal honor should have come to one of 
our own writers, and particularly to 
one whose artistic standards are so true 
to the higher ideals. 


The proverbial coldness of Boston 
audiences appears to have vanished be- 
fore the successful presentations of 
opera at the Boston Opera House, for 
here is Manager Russell complaining, 
in a letter to the Transcript, of the encore 
habit. He says : 

"Next season I contemplate asking 
the public not only to refrain from de- 
manding encores, but to refrain from 
applauding at all until the curtain falls 
at the end of the act. Unless the pub- 
lic does co-operate in this matter the 
result will be nearly the same, whether 
the artist accepts the encore or not." 

Being interpreted, this means that 
Mr. Russell is seeking the highest 
artistic effects such as can only be de- 
rived from the unbroken unity of the 

Very well. We have proven our 
warmth ; now let us carry our accom- 
modation a step farther and co-operate 
as Mr. Russell desires. 


It has been arranged by the Boston 
& Albany railroad to run a "Better- 
Farming Special" on March 30 and 
31 and April 1 and 2. During these four 
days the train will traverse the state 
over the Boston & Albany rails, and 
the enterprise is under the auspices of 
the Massachusetts Agricultural Col- 
lege, the Massachusetts State Board 
of Agriculture, the Massachusetts State 
Forestry Department, and the plan has 
the hearty approval, as well, of Mr. 
Charles M. Gardner of Westfield, mas- 
ter of the Massachusetts State Grange, 
who will go in the train part of the 

Members of the faculty of the Agri- 
cultural College, the secretary of the 
Board of Agriculture, the state forester 
and assistants, the general agent of the 
State Dairy Bureau and others inter- 
ested in the devolpment of agriculture 
will give demonstrations and lectures 
on the train on corn judging and im- 
provement, potato growing, grass, 
clover and alfalfa production, fertil- 
izers, feeding and breeding of animals, 
selection of dairy animals, production 
and care of milk, testing milk, market- 
ing of milk, New England meat pro- 
duction, scoring and judging dairy ani- 



mals, care and management of or- 
chards, spraying, pruning, packing and 
marketing fruit, forestry, extermina- 
tion of insect pests and forest fire fight- 
ing and protection. 

The demonstrations and lectures will 
take place simultaneously in five dif- 
ferent cars, and in the open air at each 
of the stations where the train stops, 
and anyone interested in agricultural 
development and allied subjects is in- 
vited to attend. There will be an exhi- 
bition of the forest fire-fighting appa- 
ratus recommended by the state for- 
ester; also spraying apparatus, pruning 
tools, dairy utensils and other agricul- 
tural implements. 

An interesting feature of the "Better- 
Farming Special" will be provided by 
State Forester Rane, who has arranged 
to have "live caterpillars of the gypsy 
moth on exhibition on the train, so that 
people who never have had a chance to 
observe them alive may have the op- 
portunity." He has also arranged for 
an exhibition of living parasites. The 
people of the state are familiar with 
the program of exterminating the 
gypsy moth by means of these para- 
sites, but this will be the first opportu- 
nity for many persons whose interest 
in the work is very acute to see these 
much-discussed parasites. The for- 
estry exhibit will also include nursery 
stock which is used in the work of re- 
forestation, and the gypsy and brown- 
tail moth in all its states will be ex- 

General Agent P. M. Harwood of the 
State Dairy Bureau will make ad- 
dresses on "The Care of Milk in the 
Dairy and in the Home," and will ex- 
hibit samples of butter, oleomargarine 
and renovated butter, and will demon- 
strate practical methods of telling one 
from another. 

The Boston & Albany Railroad will 
furnish the train and all the equipment 
necessary to make the enterprise a suc- 
cess ; and, while it is manifestly impos- 
sible in the four days allotted to stop 
at all the places where interesting 
meetings might be held, no portion of 
the state on the Boston & Albany lines 
has been neglected. 

Miss Alice Bouteu<e, daughter oe Repre- 
sentative and Mrs. BOUTEU.E 


That this important New England 
industry is developing rapidly and 
soundly at the present time is a source 
of extreme gratification. 

No food product that we have is 
more wholesome. Its price puts within 
the reach of the laboring population a 



tasty as well as wholesome and 
nourishing food. 

The following table of figures has 
been prepared by the same careful hand 

that furnished the N^w England Mag- 
azine with the statistics used in our 
Gloucester article. They are new, de- 
pendable and most instructive: 


Fresh Mackerel 3,348 

Salt Mackerel 14,805 

Fresh Herring 5,288 

*Salt Herring 46,370 

Frozen Herring x 7,635 

Porgies 817 

Halibut Fins 298 

Whiting 500 

Shad 749 

Total 89,810 

Cured Fish 














Grand total at Gloucester 88,365,658 

Total by Gloucester vessels at 

other ports, direct (estimated) 36,359,800 

Total at Gloucester and by 
Gloucester vessels at other 
ports . 124,725,458 

Includes pickled herring. 








January 1, 1909, to December 31, 1909 

1909 1908 1907 

Pounds Pounds Pounds 

Salt Cod 33,116,200 23,115,705 15,712,700 

Fresh Cod 12,300,200 13,130,700 16,167,400 

Halibut .■ 2,368,582 2,816,050 3,081,765 

Haddock 4,407,200 8,409,100 6,063,800 

Hake 1,806,900 7,868,400 9,801,950 

Cusk 1,363,800 3,405,800 4,805,300 

Pollock 5,908,700 7,133,200 16,754,400 

Flitches 800,882 880,542 826,210 

Fresh Fish from Boats 300,000 600,000 750,000 

Swordfish , " 6,184 n,954 8,250 

Total Ground Fish 62,378,648 67,371,451 73,97 x ,775 

Miscellaneous 1,743,800 1,285,200 744,176 

Total fresh fish from Boston, 9,456,000 pound's. 




In an address before the annual 
meeting of the Association of Life In- 
surance Presidents, Dr. M. J. Roseneau 
of the Department of Preventive Medi- 
cine and Hygiene of Harvard Medical 
College said, in part : 

"When the plain people understand 
that many diseases are preventable, 
they will begin to ask, 'Why are they 
not prevented?' When they ask them- 
selves this question, it means that they 
have enrolled themselves in an organ- 
ization that will prevent suffering and 
save life. The strongest weapon we 
have with which to equip our reserve 
force is knowledge, and the most skil- 
ful tactics will ever be education. 

"When the people understand that 
typhoid fever is as preventable as are 
railroad accidents, we shall have a casus 
belli and the courage needed for a vic- 
torious campaign. The government 
now protects us from cholera, leprosy, 
yellow fever and other exotic plagues ; 
why should it not also guard us against 
the dangers that are present as well as 
those that are but remotely imminent? 
Present dangers, such as tuberculosis, 
pneumonia, typhoid fever and infantile 
diarrhoeas are infections which reap 


the highest toll of death among us, and 
are foemen worthy of our best efforts." 
Putting it this way certainly makes 
us all responsible and knowledge a 
duty. What about simple courses in 
preventive hygiene in our public 

Mr. Edward Norton Treadwell, a 
San Francisco artist who was burned 
out and shaken out by the big earth- 
quake, has left that land of too great 
suddenness and came to take up his 
abode in New England. 

He worked about Magnolia and 
Gloucester last summer and sold some 
water colors at prices that have made 
some of our veteran artists lift their 

During March Mr. Treadwell opened 
an exhibition of his water colors in 
Boston, in a private apartment in "The 

A visit to this exhibition leaves one 
puzzling. Mr. Treadwell appears to 
have done the last things first. His 



Dutch scoops. 


water colors show a unity both of tone 
and composition that is usually one of 
the ultimate attainments of the su- 
preme artist. They also display a very 
decided intuition as to what to look for 
and how to see it. On the other hand, 
these same paintings, or sketches, seem 
to us to display an insufficiency of 
technique, an utter absence of finished 
workmanship that would shame a 
clever amateur. 

It seems a question, if one is dealing 
fairly with the public, to recognize these 
productions as art. But as soon as 
you arrive at that decision, you are 
converted with an evidence of imagina- 
tive vision and an ability to convey the 
seeing of the same things to the be- 
holder that is not the first step of art 
but its ultimate achievement. 

Mr.Treadwell's technical deficiencies 
are not the easy haste of a master who 
can afford to be slipshod in his rapidly- 
sketched impressions, if only he shall 
convey the vital truth. Nothing of the 
kind. Mr. Treadwell does not know 
how to handle paint properly. But he 
both foregathers and conveys the im- 
pression, none the less. 

Mr. Treadwell is very fond of 
black and white and exceedingly clever 
with his pencil. He can sometimes 
convey color values in black and white 
in a most remarkable fashion. We 
noted a sketch of a stretch of the sea 
under a bright blue sky in which he 
had penciled in the water in an almost 
solid black ! But, somehow that black, 
placed as it was, conveyed an impres- 
sion of azure depths that was most 

The old Dutch sloops, reproduced 
here, is one of these pencil sketches. 
It seems to us to possess a Turner-like 
imaginativeness. It would seem that 
mere sharpened graphite and drawing 
board could go no further in depict- 
ing the billowing massiveness and yet 
lightness of clouds. The absolute 
. boatiness of the sloops and the shim- 
mer of the harbor water that is so dif- 
ferent from that of the open sea is all 
there — and just in black on white — not 
even charcoal or crayon — but an ordi- 
nary lead-pencil ! That could only be 
done by a man absorbed in the seeing 
of that which an artist should see. 

Mr. Treadwell will make friends — 



and excite opposition. There will be 
those who will want that which he has 
to g-ive and there will be those who will 
find its technical deficiency insurmount- 

It is understood that his summer 
work will be in the neighborhood of 
Magnolia and Gloucester. 

The eighteenth concert of the Boston 
Symphony Orchestra, Max Fiedler con- 
ducting, was given Saturday evening 
in Symphony Hall. 

The Brahms symphony in E minor, 
number 4, opus 98, is the very brownest 
of symphonies. It is the* great brain 
of a great German bending the iron of 
heavy and, at times, laborious thought. 
Mr. Fiedler gave it a sort of from-meas- 
ure-to-measure reading, which length- 
ened out its patterns and laid bare its 
intricate workmanship, thus making its 
whole thought context more heavily 
German than ever. And at times it is 
heavy thought, even more than it is 
deep thought. There is a herculean 
rather than an olympian colossalness 
about its achievement. There is a se- 
rious abstractness emanating from its 
whole, which is as divorced from any 
suggestion of human experience as pos- 
sible. It is Brahms, the great mind, 
evolving abstract and austere conclu- 
sions by means of the purest processes 
of thought. Only in the finale is there 
the least suggestion of himself; in this 
it would seem that the very problem of 
it all had enthused him with a real fer- 
vor which impassions his last words in 
this symphony. 

Mr. Ferruccio Busoni, the renowned 
pianist, was the soloist of the occasion. 
Mr. Busoni had not been heard in Bos- 
ton for six years past. The announce- 
ment of his reappearance in Boston 
called forth the greatest interest, — I 
almost fear the anticipation was greater 
than the realization. The anticipation 
was colored with the report that a de- 

cided gain emotionally was to be ex- 

Mr. Busoni by nature is, for the 
greater part, Italian. And the Busoni 
of vSaturday evening is still the Italian 
pianist. It is an interesting study to 
note how and psychologically why the 
temperamental and human pianists are 
invariably Slavs or Teutons, and never 
French, Italian or Spanish. These Lat- 
ins have a finesse, a polish — a diplo- 
macy, as it were — of pianism as well as 
of manners. They raise all processes 
of achievement to the — nth power. It 
is the artlessness of art. There was the 
same difference between the "Chansons 
d'Amour" of the old Troubadours and 
the impassioned "minnelied" of the Min- 
nesingers. Even the instances which 
you could point out as indicative of 
Latin feeling can be sifted down to tem- 
perament of the imagination, of poesy, 
rather than a human outcry. 

Mr. Busoni, by a part of his nature 
and by recent environment, should 
evidence things Teutonic, and to some 
extent he does. He is not' a mere iri- 
descent virtuoso. The worst thing one 
can say about him is that his piano 
playing is the quintessence of pianism. 
It is a speech of absolute and unques- 
tionable authority which he utters. It 
is the great utterance of a recluse, as it 
were, pianistically expressed. Creed is 
no longer of consequence, but never- 
theless there was an intense Romanism 
about the performance — a mission per- 
formed in the name of the Trinity, with 
the chief accent on the name of the last 
of its three elements. And this is not 
Beethoven, for he is, of musical thought 
and concept, the emancipating Luther. 
Mr. Beethoven's concerto in E flat ma- 
jor, number 5, is the consummation of 
mighty thought and grandeur, — the ut- 
terance of the truth of God in man ; of 
nobility of thought that dares to ride 
high above injustice and petty souls 
and knows no shrinking. And rightly 
did he name it the "Emperor." Mr. 
Busoni's impersonation was of an em- 
pirical concerto. It was power by 
divine right of descent and the infalli- 
bility of a cardinal chair. Few alive 
could equal or vie with this empirical 



impersonation, this greatness of pian- 
ism, but it is an affair which the shade 
of Mr. Beethoven would like to settle 
with Mr. Busoni ; and if the shade hov- 
ered very near to Symphony Hall on 
Saturday evening, it probably was un- 
satisfied if not distressed. 

The problem becomes of somewhat 
such a nature as this : If you were most 
concerned with witnessing a twentieth- 
century performance, with the piano as 
medium, then there is no word for you 
to speak. Mr. Busoni said the last 
word. But if you went to feel the 
blood of the flame-fired finger of him 
who unchained music from her bond- 
age and linked her to mightiest thought, 
then you must still feel as though you 
had been handed a rather pale photo- 
graph of the same. 

To sum up, Ferruccio Busoni is one 
of the greatest living pianists ; but with 
all his apparent and profound serious- 
ness his power of concept is not equal 
to the power of intent of the composer 
of the "Emperor" concerto. 

The Schubert "Overture to Rosa- 
munde," opus 26, formed the remaining 
number on the program, and was a 
pleasantly buoyant and spontaneous 
peacemaker, and the more of interest 
because it had not been heard here 
since the sixth of March, 1897, when 
it occurred on a Boston Symphony Or- 
chestra program. 

The "Faust Symphony," including 
the choral number, which has not been 
given in Boston for some years, is to be 
heard at a Symphony Orchestra con- 
cert soon. The great ninth symphony 
of Beethoven will again be presented 
at the final concert. This is not only a 
rare opportunity for the Boston musi- 
cal public, but an achievement of which 
the American musical world may well 
be proud. 

Mr. Fritz Kreisler, the noted and 
masterly violinist, will appear with the 
Symphony Orchestra on Friday after- 
noon, April 8, and on Saturday even- 
ing, April 9. Mr. Kreisler is by all odds 
the greatest violinist who frequents the 
American shore ; he. dignifies the violin 
and the art of all music to a sublimity 
unreached by most artists of to-day. 


Boston will welcome the second com- 
ing of Mr. Oscar Hammerstein's Man- 
hattan Grand Opera Company, with its 
unrivalled collection of stars. They 
will begin a two weeks' engagement on 
March twenty-eight at the Boston The- 
ater, including: "Elektra," Monday, 
March 28; "Lucia di Lammermoor," 
Tuesday, March 29; "Le Jongleur de 
Notre Dame," Wednesday matinee, 
March 30; "Griselidis," Wednesday, 
March 30; "La Navarraise" and "The 
Daughter of the Regiment," Thursday, 
March 31 ; "Pelleas and Melisande," 
Friday, April 1 ; "La Traviata," Satur- 
day matinee, April 2; "Thais," Satur- 
day evening, April 2 ; "Faust," Monday, 
April 4; "La Traviata," Tuesday, April 
5; "Rigoletto," Wednesday, April 6; 
"Louise," Thursday, April 7; "The 
Tales of Hoffman," Friday, April 8; 
"Elektra," Saturday matinee, April 9; 
"Lucia di Lammermoor," Saturday 
evening, April 9. 

The Twentieth Century Club Com- 
mittee for the study of the Amusement 
Situation in Boston has made its re- 
port. As in duty bound they found 
need of a higher standard and are es- 
pecially concerned about the moral 
tone of much that classes as "drama." 
However, they have no light as to pos- 
sible betterment. of the situation. 

They have compiled more or less 
convincing figures to show that the 
demand for theatrical entertainment 
is tremendously on the increase, and 
bring out very prominently the great 
relative growth of the cheaper forms 
of amusement, such as moving picture 
shows and vaudeville. None of this is 
news, but the report of the committee 
brings it out very effectively. 

In all such reviews of the current 
dramatic world, there is a tendency to 
forget that two very different kind of 
things are collected under the general 



title of dramatic entertainment — 
drama as a serious art, and popular 
amusement. Serious drama may be 
anything but amusing, and the craving 
for amusement is natural and universal. 
A feature of this winter's dramatic 

laborious conditions of stock com- 
pany work and with the limited ex- 
pense account of a low-priced theatre. 
The plays have been well chosen and 
well presented and have met with a 
well-earned patronage. 

"Biwjb" Burke, who appears at the Hou,is Street Theatre in Aprii, 

life in Boston has been the excellent 
work done by the John Craig Stock 
Company at the Castle Square Theatre. 
This company has furnished uniformly 
excellent, low-priced drama under the 


Beginning Monday, March 28th, 
Billie Burke will appear at the Hollis 
Street Theatre in a three-act comedy 
entitled, "Mrs. Dot." This is a new 



play by W. Sameoset Maugham, author 
of "Jack Straw" and "Lady Frederick." 
The play comes from a very successful 
performance at the Lyceum Theatre in 
New York. Nothing need be said of 
Billie Burke, who is a prime favorite in 
Boston, as is also Fritzi Scheff, who 
will follow the Billie Burke engage- 

Fritzi Scheff will appear in the light 
opera success, "The Prince Duma," by 
Henry Blossom and Victor Herbert. 
The engagement will begin April nth. 
This is certain to be an entertainment 
for which those who wish to see it 
must plan well ahead, as Fritzi Scheff 
is one of the most deserving and well- 
liked stars on the light opera stage. 

At the Colonial Theatre the "Harvest 
Moon," which we have already noticed, 
will occupy the first week of April and 
it will be followed by "The Third De- 

gree," an old play, but a very popular 

At the Park Theatre "The Man 
from Home" will still hold the boards. 
This is one of the most successful 
plays that have been put on any stage 
in the city for a long time. It is a 
play to which people go more than 
once, and that is saying a good deal 
for any play nowadays, with the multi- 
plicity of available attractions. 

Raymond Hitchcock in "The Man 
Who Owns Broadway" has been play- 
ing at the Tremont since March 7th, 
and it will continue' well into and 
through April. It is a humorous hit 
that keeps the audience laughing and 
is one of George M. Cohan's most pro- 
nounced successes. Raymond Hitch- 
cock is a very clever stage humorist 
and does his part to keep up the yerve 
the snap of the piece. 

-With ttie- 


BOSTON— 1915 

Boston-1915 has announced an in- 
teresting and novel plan for awakening 
in Bostonians their highest efficiency 
as useful citizens. It is to award each 
year medals commemorating specially 
notable achievements that make for the 
city's progress. 

The city progress medals, as they are 
called, are not to be given as rewards 
of merit. Emphasis is laid on the fact 
that their purpose is to "commemorate 
the deed and not the doer." In other 
words, they are intended to be a means 
of educating the average citizen to a 
right understanding of service to the 
city; to make it clear to him that fre- 
quently what he might have thought 

commonplace is actually a great ser- 
vice, and to inspire him to contribute 
his ideas for the city's benefit, because 
they may be really helpful, and not be- 
cause they ma}^ bring a bronze token 
that will please his vanity. 

The first award will be made March 
30 of this year, which is the first anni- 
versary of the inception of the Boston- 
1915 movement. There will be two sets 
of medals — one for service to any of 
the "districts" into which the local citi- 
zens' associations divide Boston, and 
the other for service to the city as a 
whole. The district medals will be 
awarded on the judgment of the citi- 
zens' association in each locality. The 
city medals will be awarded by a board 



r [of judges composed of men and women 
^representing the different departments 
|of the city's life — public officials (Mayor 
Fitzgerald is one who has accepted ser- 
vice on the board), lawyers, doctors 
and clergymen, business men, leaders 
n the interests of women, and so on. 

There are no restrictions upon the 
number of medals or upon the charac- 
ter of service for which they are to be 
Jgiven. After 1910 each year's award 
will be confined to service rendered 
the community during the preceding 
twelve-month period. But this year 
the judges will consider anything done 
within the past three or four years, if 
that seems desirable, in order that the 
award may be as illustrative as possible 
in gettinginthe public mind the clearest 
understanding of the plan, and the most 
concrete idea of what may constitute 
civic service. 


I believe in New England. In the 
Jlpre-eminence of her location as the 
gateway to Europe. In the beauty and 
healthfulness of her hills and lakes. 
In the undeveloped, unlimited power 
Df her rivers, and the ocean commerce 
3f her seaports. In the variety and 
Ljhiarvelous efficiency of her industries. 
1 In the skill and inventive genius of 
ler workmen, the public spirit of her 
business men, and the resulting pros- 
perity of her people. 
I believe in New England's mission. 
1 fn the glory of her past and the great- 
e : ciess of her future, and I believe that the 
same spirit of the Boston Tea Party, 
of Lexington, and the Civil War — the 
spirit that lavishly gave its blood, 
brawn, brains and money to the up- 
jbuilding of the country — still lives in 
■New England's sons and daughters and 
■waits only the word to call all New 
■England to the still greater things 
['which are before us. 

I believe in the tremendous, trans- 

Iforming power of optimism; I believe 

[that it is lack of faith which checks 

the development of individuals, asso- 

ciations, and sections. That skepticism 

is the only thing which stands between 

New England and her great destiny. 
And that when pessimism is trans- 
formed to optimism, New England will 
again take her rightful place in the 
vanguard of industrial progress. 

Therefore I am resolved that 1 will 
avoid and help others to escape from 
the deadening, demoralizing rut of 
criticism, skepticism and inertia. That 
I will be a booster, not a knocker. 
And that I will neglect no opportunity 
to show my faith in the future of New 
England and to labor unceasingly for 
its fulfilment. (Copyright, 1910, by 
Pilgrim Publicity Association, Boston, 


Editor New England Magazine 

Many years ago the Central Vermont 
Railway built a handsome railway sta- 
tion here, well suited to the business 
done on their branch leading to our 
city. Since then their business has 
greatly increased and outgrown its ac- 
commodations. Besides, the Rutland 
road uses, with the Central Vermont, 
the same station. It is located about 
a quarter of a mile from the passenger 
dock of the Champlain Transportation 
Company, which does a large and in- 
creasing summer-tourist business. Its 
passengers are obliged to walk or ride 
this quarter of a mile to reach the 
trains. A committee of our Commercial 
Club has had several meetings with a 
committee of the Central Vermont, and 
the probability is that we shall soon 
have a thoroughly modern station at 
the foot of Main street, an ornament 
to our city and a great convenience to 
our citizens and their visitors. 

The second concert of our Symphony 
Orchestra, under the direction of Pro- 
fessor Larsen, was even more satisfac- 
tory than the first. 

Professor Wilder has got together a 
remarkable company of young musi- 
cians called the ''Clef Club." It is made 
up of children and young people rang- 
ing from the ages of six to sixteen, and 
their performance of difficult and really 
classical selections was the admiration 
of the great crowd who heard them at 
a recent concert. If they continue as 



they have begun, the Symphony Or- 
chestra will have to look to its laurels. 

The Central Vermont has lately 
granted a generous reduction of rates 
on rough granite, which may have a 
favorable effect on the finishing of 
granite in Burlington. 

We now have a superb snow land- 
scape, rivalling the lovely specimens 
you often give in your beautiful pages. 

Yours truly, 



The Board of Trade was organized 
in 1866 and reorganized in 1890. It has 
ever kept a watchful eye over all the 
interests of the city. 

Gloucester is unique in having for its 
principal industry (the fisheries) one 
which is co-operative, and in being the 
largest port in the country engaged in 
the business. So it is natural that most 
of the work of the Board of Trade 
should have been in that direction. 
This organization has done all that 
could be done to further the fishing in- 
terests, and has established a closer in- 
timacy among all the men engaged in 
the fisheries. Conferences concerning 
some branch of the business are held 
at the rooms nearly every day, thereby 
enabling the dealers to keep in touch 
with changing conditions, and to secure 
a more adequate return on capital in- 
vested and for the energy which they 
put into the business. 

New vessels are being built, not with 
a rush, but the fleet is gradually being 
increased with that conservatism which 
indicates wise business management. 

Second in importance is the work 
done by this organization for the ben- 
efit of the summer business. The Board 
of Trade extends to the many summer 
visitors who come to Gloucester in in- 
creasing numbers each year the cour- 
tesies of the commodious and con- 
venient rooms, with every facility 
for transacting business, including pub- 
lic stenographer, local and long-dis- 
tance telephones, which are very much 
appreciated and freely used. 

The Board of Trade has an energetic 

publicity committee, which has recently 
issued an illustrated publication show- 
ing the business advantages of the city, 
copies of which may be obtained by ad- 
dressing the secretary. Illustrated en- 
velopes to the number of one million 
three hundred thousand have been and 
are being used by the citizens to carry 
the fame and picturesqueness of the 
place to all parts of the world. 

A system of advertising designed to 
convince every family of the economy 
in the use of salted fish, with directions 
for preparing, has been inaugurated, 
and methods for continuing the cam- 
paign are now being considered. 

The Board of Trade, as an organiza- 
tion, has not in the past taken a very 
active part in municipal affairs, but 
lately has evinced a great interest, and 
undoubtedly more of an influence will 
be exerted in that direction in the fu- 
ture than in the past. 

For many years an expert statistician 
has been employed, and the Gloucester 
Board of Trade has full and complete 
records and statistics covering its prin- 
cipal industry, the fisheries. 

The organization has an arbitration 
committee composed of able men, but 
their services have been called into 
requisition only once in forty years, 
showing the good feeling existing be- 
tween our business men. 

The membership consists of one hun- 
dred and ninety and is constantly grow- 
ing. It embraces representative busi- 
ness men, retired merchants and pro- 
fessional men. Meetings are held fre- 
quently, at which addresses are deliv- 
ered on interesting topics. The next 
will be on the matter of "Savings-Bank 
Life Insurance," by Mr. Harry Wj] 
Kimball, the field secretary of the 
Massachusetts Savings-Bank Insurance 

In order to increase the scope of the 
work and add to its efficiency the Board 
of Trade is now considering the matter 
of the employment of a permanent sec- 
retary, who shall devote all of his time 
to the interests of the organization. 

Yours very truly, 






'The Birches", I^ake Maranacook, Maine 

Trail to Campers' Point 


Photograph by Notman 

Hon. Samuel L. Powers 

New England Magazine 

Vol. XLII. MAY, 19 io Number 3 

The Taft Administration 


IT is very difficult to understand 
the currents of public sentiment 
in this country. They flow stead- 
ily in one direction for a time, and then 
suddenly, without apparent cause, their 
courses change and they flow in an op- 
posite or divergent direction, with even 
greater force than before. In these 
changing movements they are not un- 
like the currents of air, ever changing 
in direction and force with the varying 
changes of atmospheric conditions. 
Just at present, driven by these cur- 
rents of sentiment, we appear to be 
driven into an area of pessimism and 
doubt. That irrepressible optimism 
which has always been a dominant trait 
in the American character, and a tre- 
mendous force in the development of 
our commercial and industrial great- 
ness, is for the time being checked. We 
appear to be losing faith in each other 
and confidence in ourselves. I am not, 
however, prepared to believe that the 
present tendency toward pessimism is 
likely to continue for any great length 
of time. It is absolutely foreign to our 
nature, and its existence can only be 
accounted for by the concerted influ- 
ence upon the public mind of a large 
number of magazine and newspaper 
writers. These publications are at- 
tempting to persuade the American 
people that the times are "out of joint" ; 
that our public servants are either in- 
capable or dishonest; that our judges 

are mere puppets controlled by politi- 
cal or commercial influence in the dis- 
charge of their judicial duties; that the 
large combinations of capital are all 
wilful and insistent violators of the 
law; that the time has already come 
when it is no longer safe to rely upon 
business honor and individual honesty, 
but that every one must be on his guard 
to detect fraud and deceit in those with 
whom he deals, even though they be his 
friends and neighbors. This sentiment 
of distrust is being fanned into a grow- 
ing flame by the literary highwayman 
in his contributions to what is known 
as the "popular" magazine. The pub- 
lisher tells us that there is a strong pub- 
lic demand for contributions of this 
character, and hence his justification 
for giving the people the food they 
crave. He tells us that the reading pub- 
lic of this country no longer demand 
plain and wholesome literary food, but 
that the literary palate now insists 
upon something that is highly sea- 
soned, and the larger amount of tabasco 
sauce the better. The accurate .and 
painstaking student of political econ- 
omy, who has devoted many years of 
careful study to the subject, and who 
may have won his present position as 
the head of a great department of eco- 
nomics in one of our large universities 
or colleges, is no longer the popular 
contributor to our magazines engaged 
in instructing our people concerningthe 




cause of the increase of the cost of liv- 
ing. The author who won literary 
fame last year when he gave to the 
world a lurid work of fiction, and who 
never in his life gave any careful study 
to the subject of political economy, is 
this year the popular contributor to the 
world's knowledge of the underlying 
causes of the variation in the prices of 
articles of commerce. Without the 
slightest hesitation, and with a vehe- 
mence which permits of no discussion, 
he tells us that the increase or decrease 
in the annual production of gold does 
not and never did have any effect what- 
ever upon the price at which foodstuffs 
and other articles of commerce are 
bought and sold. He contemptuously 
brushes aside the expressed views of 
Chevalier, Carnes, Erich and other 
great students of the question. What 
cares he for the opinion of these old 
fogies ! What cares he for the law of 
supply and demand ! Why should he 
waste his valuable time in discussing 
the laws of economics which have been 
accepted by the civilized world for 
three centuries at least ! How much bet- 
ter to tell his readers, as did a* writer 
in a well-known magazine issued in 
April of the present year, that whatever 
the production, "the cost of living 
would still be high if the same gang of 
thieves were permitted to stand be- 
tween the producers and consumers" ; 
and again, "If the government were to 
permit the cost of living continually to 
be increased, the government ought to 
be destroyed." This writer was dis- 
cussing the high cost of living. We all 
know it is an old question and has been 
under discussion by great students for 
centuries. It has generally been re- 
garded as a rather intricate and dry 
subject for consideration, but you will 
observe how entrancing it becomes 
when it is properly treated by the 
writer of fiction. This is the conclusion 
which he finally reaches : The only 
cause of high cost of living, a gang of 
thieves; remedy, government destroy 
the thieves. Failing to do this, then de- 
stroy the government. Unfortunately, 
this modern economist does not tell us 
what the cost of living is likely to be 

after the government has been de- 
stroyed, except by inference, and that 
is that when our government has dis- 
appeared from the face of the earth the 
cost of living will probably be reason- 

During, the past few months there 
has been more or less criticism of the 
administration of Mr. Taft. This criti- 
cism has come largely through the col- 
umns of the popular magazine, so 
called, and the articles have been writ- 
ten in many cases by the same class of 
men Avho are engaged in the discussion 
of the economic questions of the day. 
It may be worth while to examine 
somewhat critically the more impor- 
tant criticisms of Mr. Taft's adminis- 
tration. We must bear in mind that 
this administration has been in exist- 
ence for only a little over a year; that 
during that period there has been one 
special or extraordinary session of Con- 
gress — for the consideration of the 
tariff question — and that a session is 
now in progress having under consid- 
eration many important recommenda- 
tions from the President. Within so 
short a period of time it could hardly 
be expected that the President could 
formulate and put into execution his 
larger policies depending upon new leg- 
islation. He must, however, be held 
responsible for his approval of the 
Payne tariff bill, and for his attitude 
toward it while it was under consid- 
eration by the Congress. He must also 
be held responsible for having recom- 
mended a revision of the tariff which 
resulted in the passage of the new tariff 
law. The Republican party, when it 
nominated Mr. Taft as its candidate for 
the presidency, adopted as one of the 
planks of its platform its purpose to 
bring about a revision of the tariff. Mr. 
Taft believed that he was politically 
and morally bound to do his utmost to 
keep that pledge to the American peo- 
ple, and with that in view he called the 
special session of Congress directly 
after his inauguration, and recom- 
mended a revision of the existing tariff 
laws. While the subject was under con- 
sideration by the two branches of Con- 
gress he did everything he properly 



could to persuade Congress to revise 
the tariff downward. Everybody knows 
that the bill which Congress finally pre- 
sented to the President for his approval 
was not satisfactory to him. It was, 
however, satisfactory to a majority of 
the two branches of Congress, and the 
members of the House at least are sup- 
posed to represent public sentiment. 
Now, when that bill had passed Con- 
gress and was presented to the Presi- 
dent, there were two courses open to 
him, — either to sign the bill or veto it. 
Had he vetoed the bill, the agitation 
for tariff reform would have continued, 
with all its depressing effect upon the 
industries of the country. The Presi- 
dent reached the conclusion that it was 
better for the welfare of the country 
that he should sign thebill,even though 
not entirely satisfactory to him, and 
that through the creation of a tariff 
board which he had recommended there 
should be an earnest effort made to se- 
cure such additional and reliable infor- 
mation as would make it possible in the 
near future to revise the law along 
more scientific lines and upon a more 
reasonable basis. Suppose, now, that 
the President, instead of signing the 
bill, had vetoed it. In other words, 
suppose he had set up his judgment 
against the judgment of the Congress 
which had passed the bill. Two results 
were absolutely sure to have followed. 
In the first place, he would have antag- 
onized Congress, and in the second 
place he would greatly have hindered 
the return of industrial prosperity. In 
the very beginning of his administra- 
tion he would have put himself in a 
controversy with Congress, with little 
hope of securing the passage of such 
other legislation as he believed the 
country demanded. While the subject 
of revision of the tariff was under con- 
sideration it could not be expected that 
business would return to its normal 
condition. So much for the President's 
relation to the new tariff act. 

A number of writers in magazines 
which have recently appeared tell us 
that the people have lost faith in Mr. 
Taft because of his association with the 
"bosses" of the Republican party, and 

they point to the fact that he is appar- 
ently on good terms with Senator Aid- 
rich, Senator Root, Secretary Knox and 
Speaker Cannon. Well, why shouldn't 
he be on good terms with them? Does 
any one claim that he is on better terms 
■with them than was Mr. Roosevelt? 
Were not all these distinguished gen- 
tlemen connected with the Roosevelt 
administration? Were any of them 
ever denounced by Mr. Roosevelt dur- 
ing his administration as unsafe men to 
meet? At no time did Mr. Roosevelt 
ever publicly state that, any of these 
gentlemen were lacking in loyalty or 
devotion to any of the policies which 
he believed in. It is true that Mr. Taft 
selected Mr. Knox as his Secretary of 
State, but Mr. Knox had been Attor- 
ney-General under the administration 
of President Roosevelt. He was known 
to be a very close and intimate friend 
of the. ex-President. He had entered 
the Senate after his retirement from the 
Roosevelt cabinet with the full ap- 
proval of his former chief. While upon 
the floor of the Senate it was known 
that he represented the progressive 
ideas of Mr. Roosevelt. Mr. Root filled 
two important cabinet positions during 
the Roosevelt administration, — first, 
that of Secretary of War and then Sec- 
retary of State, and it is publicly known 
that Mr. Roosevelt was desirous that 
he should come to the Senate repre- 
senting the Empire State. As for Mr. 
Aldrich, he has for years been regarded 
as the leader of the Senate in connec- 
tion with matters of tariff and finance. 
So far as it appears, he was on excel- 
lent terms with Mr. Roosevelt during 
his incumbency of the White House; 
nor has anythingever appeared to show 
that there was any serious difference 
between Mr. Roosevelt and Speaker 
Cannon. A recent magazine writer 
speaks of Mr. Taft coming to Wash- 
ington at the time of his inauguration, 
and says : "The Aldriches, the Can- 
nons, the Roots, the Knoxes and every 
other tongue-lolling, wide-jawed wolf 
of Money were there to flatter him. 
They wooed and they won him." If 
they have wooed and won Mr. Taft, 
they certainly wooed and won Mr. 



Roosevelt, because their relations with 
the former were quite as intimate as 
they have been with the latter. The 
President has never had anytariff views 
in common with Mr. Aldrich. He has 
never been on terms of what may be 
called personal intimacy with Speaker. 
Cannon. However, he is criticised by 
the radical weeklies and monthlies be- 
cause he appears to be on speaking 
terms with these distinguished states- 

Suppose the President were to fol- 
low the advice of these magazine 
writers, and become an insurgent, and 
enter fiercely into a contest with the 
leading statesmen of his own party who 
to-day are largely in control of the leg- 
islation of Congress. Such a course, 
no doubt, would please some people, 
but it could result in no good, and on 
the other hand it would be sure to re- 
sult in much harm. It would disorgan- 
ize the Republican party; it would pre- 
vent the passage of many laws which 
ought to be enacted, and which have 
been recommended by the Presidenty 
and it would prepare the way for the 
return of the Democratic party to 
power in both the executive and legis- 
lative departments of our government. 

There appears to be a disposition 
upon the part of some of these maga- 
zine writers to hold the President and 
his party solely responsible for the 
present high cost of living. So far as 
prices are excessive by reason of failure 
to enforce existing law, or to enact 
necessary legislation to prevent the 
charging of exorbitant prices, thus far 
is the administration to be held re- 
sponsible for the situation. If, how- 
ever, the present high cost of living is 
traceable to other than political causes, 
then, of course, the administration 
should not be held responsible for the 
situation. It is true that we are passing 
through an era of high prices, and so 
far as they affect the necessaries of 
life they create great unrest and dis- 
satisfaction among the people. It is 
not difficult to determine the present 
causes of the increase in the cost of liv- 
ing. It is not limited to this country, 
but extends throughout the entire civ- 

ilized world. The increase is undoubt- 
edly due to several causes, one of the 
more important causes being the tre- 
mendous increase in the world's pro- 
duction of gold. In the year 1896 the 
amount of gold coin in the United 
States was $8.40 per inhabitant; in 1908 
it had increased to $18.46 per inhab- 
itant, or nearly 120 per cent., or an in- 
crease of 10 per cent, annually. This 
steady increase in amount of gold has 
brought about a corresponding de- 
crease in the purchasing power of 
money, and a corresponding increase in 
the cost of living. Another important 
cause is the excessive growth of our 
urban population, and extends to the 
abnormal increase of our manufactur- 
ing industries, which have within a dec- 
ade made this country the foremost 
manufacturing nation of the world. 
These manufacturingindustrieshave of- 
fered inducements in the way of higher 
wages, which have resulted in the 
growth of the population in the large 
cities and towns, and this has been en- 
couraged at the expense of our agricul- 
tural industries, and a natural result 
has been that our agricultural indus- 
tries have relatively fallen off per in- 
habitant within the last twenty years. 
This of itself would account for the in- 
creased cost of grain and livestock, 
which, after all, form the principal food 
products for our population. Free pas- 
turage on the public lands of the na- 
tion, while it continued, enabled our 
people to raise livestock at a reasonable 
expense, and to export vast quantities 
of animal food products to Europe at a 
profit in competition with other sources 
of supply from abroad. The settle- 
ment of the Western prairie lands, to- 
gether with the policy of allowing free 
pasture to the so-called "Beef Bar- 
ons," has resulted in the reduction of 
herds, and, without question, has in- 
creased cost of beef for food. In other 
words, the law of supply and demand 
has proved most unkind in its effect 
upon the cost of living. 

•It is, of course, easy to charge the 
President with failure to enforce law 
against the "middlemen," so called, and 
say that failure to enforce the law is 



the cause of the present high price of 
food. There certainly is no evidence of 
any failure on the part of the adminis- 
tration to properly enforce the trust 
laws against the packers, and there is 
ample evidence of proof that the pres- 
ent high cost of living is due to causes 
over which the administration has no 
control whatever. 

It is certainly gratifying to see that 
no one undertakes to charge the Presi- 
dent with failure to enforce the laws 
for the regulation of trusts and monop- 
olies. He may be doing it quietly, but 
he certainly is doing it effectively. A 
well-known metropolitan daily, in re- 
ferring to the President's enforcement 
of the law, says : "He has whipped up 
the anti-trust law to speed never before 

The legislative programme which the 
President has submitted to Congress is 
in every way ample. It includes all the 
measures to which the Republican party 
was pledged. There has been no sug- 
gestion, so far as I know, that he has 
failed to recommend any important leg- 
islation demanded by the people. What 
is most gratifying is that this legisla- 
tive programme as recommended by 
the President is likely to be largely en- 
acted into law at the present session 
of Congress, and this leads us to the 
consideration of one other phase of 
the criticism which is being heaped 
upon the President, and that is that he 
is not a great political leader. It is 
somewhat difficult to determine what 
is the exact test of great leadership in 
political affairs. It is, however, gen- 
erally conceded that a man is a great 
leader who is able to accomplish the 
purposes he has in view. Clay, Doug- 
las, Stevens, Blaine and Garfield are 
regarded as our great parliamentary 
leaders, but they earned that reputa- 
tion by reason of being able to persuade 
men to follow them and do things which 
they recommended. If that be the test 
of political leadership, then surely Mr. 
Taft must be regarded a great political 
leader if he has the capacity to per- 

suade the two branches of Congress to 
adopt his theories of legislation and 
enact them into law. Any President 
who involves himself in controversy 
with the lawmaking branch of our gov- 
ernment to the extent of defeating the 
very purposes he has in view cannot be 
regarded a great political leader. Un- 
doubtedly, there are those among our 
people who would like to see a violent 
controversy in progress between the 
President and the leaders of both the 
Senate and the House. The more vio- 
lent the controversy, the better it would 
please them. If they seek leadership 
of that character, they will not find it 
in Mr. Taft. He is a great administra- 
tive officer. He understands men and 
the motives which control them. He 
never appeals to passions and preju- 
dices, but to sound, common sense. He 
is honest and he demands honesty in 
others. He is patriotic and unselfish, and 
he is sufficiently optimistic to expect to 
find those essential qualities in others. 
He does not and he will not seek to 
control the expression of public sen- 
timent in the American newspapers and 
magazines. If they criticise him un- 
fairly or unjustly, he will submit to the 
criticism, and he can afford to do so, so 
long as he is conscious that he is doing 
his duty in the best manner for the 
welfare of the American people. He 
will remain content to rely upon the 
common sense and fair play of his fel- 
low-countrymen, and he can safely 
do so. 

There is no people in the world more 
fair-minded or more generous-hearted 
than ours. We may be for the time 
being be led astray by these lurid 
writers of political fiction ; we may for 
the moment accept assertion for argu- 
ment, and we may say unjust and un- 
kind things concerning our public offi- 
cials, but sooner or later our better 
judgment asserts itself and we are once 
more true American citizens, loyal to 
our government and devoted to our 
leaders and supremely hopeful of the 
future of the republic. 

Photograph by Byrd Studio 

Josephine Preston Peabody (Mrs. Lionel Marks) 

Josephine Preston Peabody 

America's Dramatic Poet 



CAMBRIDGE woman has won 
a signal honor. Through her 
achievement she has conferred 
a lasting source of pride upon her city, 
her state and her country. . It was on 
March n that a dispatch from London 
to New York bore these lines : 

"Josephine Preston Peabody, who is 
Mrs. Lionel Marks of Cambridge, 
Mass., is the winner of the prize of 
$1500 offered by one of the governors 
of the Shakespeare Memorial Theater 
at Stratford-on-Avon for the best play 
submitted for performance at the the- 
ater. Three hundred and fifteen plays 
were sent to the reading committee, 
who selected two which were submit- 
ted to the Duke of Argyll, whose de- 
cision is in favor of Miss Peabody's 
play, entitled 'The Piper.' It deals 
with the old story of the Tied Piper 
of Hamelin.' The play is to be acted on 
May 5, when, according to the condi- 
tions of the contest, the prize is to be 
presented to the successful playwright 
on the stage of the Memorial Theater." 

It was stated in the conditions that 
the competition was open to the world, 
and that preferably the play should be 
a poetic and romantic piece. Miss Pea- 
body had known nothing of this prize 
I competition until she received from a 
friend a newspaper clipping which 
made some brief mention of it, shortly 
after the publication of "The Piper," in 
the autumn of 1909. She immediately 
forwarded a copy of the play to the 
governors of the Memorial Theater, 
which has now received such a notable 
stamp of approval. In the six months 
which elapsed between the submitting 

of the play and the reception of the 
prize-awarding telegram there was 
many a chance for hope and fear to al- 
ternate in the author's heart. Six 
months of absolute silence would have 
been sufficiently trying, but to Miss 
Peabody there came at intervals cer- 
tain communications which served but 
to make the waiting period unusually 
wearing. The first of these brought 
the intelligence that all but thirty of 
the three hundred and fifteenplays sub- 
mitted had been thrown aside; that her 
work was among those which would 
merit further consideration. A little 
later she received word that she was 
among the list of possible winners, 
which had then narrowed to seven. 
This letter was accompanied with the 
request for several copies of her play, 
"since she was the only one of that 
seven who lived at so great a distance 
that, should she prove the victor, there 
would scarcely be time to secure 
enough copies to distribute among the 
actors for the May production." More 
hope — but also more delay. One day 
there came the announcement from the 
secretary of the Shakespeare Memorial 
Association that only Miss Peabody 
and one other remained as rival com- 
petitors. At this time the Cambridge 
poet was seriously ill at the hospital, so 
there was perhaps less thought of dra- 
matic matters across the water. But 
it was an added happiness to her con- 
valescence when news arrived in this 
country that her play had received its 
final approval from the Duke of Argyll. 
Miss Peabody was born in New York 
State, but the family removed to Mas- 
sachusetts when she was very young, 
so that she attended the public schools 




of Boston, the Girl's Latin School, took 
special courses at Radcliffe, becoming 
later a valued instructor and lecturer 
at Wellesley College. All her life she 
has been a devoted student of poetry 
and drama, and from her earliest years 
has shown great poetic talent. She was 
but fourteen when her first poem was 
accepted by a New York editor, while 
her first contribution to the Atlantic 
Magazine so impressed Horace Scud- 
der, then its editor, that he requested 
the writer to call upon him at his office. 
When she presented herself he could 
hardly believe that the childlike per- 
sonage before him was the author of 
such musical, finished verse. 

When a special student at Radcliffe, 
Miss Peabody gave most of her time 
to the study of Greek, Italian and the 
Elizabethan drama. In 1897 she pub- 
lished her first book, "Old Greek Folk- 
Stories : Told Anew." The following 
year appeared her first volume of 
poems, "The Wayfarers." In 1900, 
when "Fortune and Men's Eyes" came 
from the press, critics united in placing 
Miss Peabody in the forefront of living 
poets. This success was closely fol- 
lowed by one even greater, "Marlowe," 
a five-act drama, which was given 
three performances by Harvard Uni- 
versity in 1906, and hailed by Richard 
Henry Stoddard as "not a book of the 
week, or of the year, but a lasting con- 
tribution to the glory of American let- 

Thus, while still in her twenties, was 
Miss Peabody commanding the atten- 
tion, the admiration and the enthusi- 
asm of the literati. Ripe scholars were 
encouraging her; men like Stedman, 
Gosse and Dobson were exulting in her 
talent, and her style was already rec- 
ognized as possessing distinction and 
exquisite clarity. 

"The Singing Leaves : a Book of 
Songs and Spells," has had more popu- 
lar vogue than any of her other books 
(save, perhaps, the "Marlowe" play, 
which is, of course, not so quotable in 
fragments). It was a deep pleasure to 
the author to learn that not long ago 
some of these songs had been trans- 
lated and published in Japan by a na- 

tive admirer. Our American com- 
posers have been swift to see how read- 
ily a number of them have lent them- 
selves to musical setting. 

"The Book of the Little Past" is a 
recent publication, charmingly illus- 
trated by Elizabeth Shippen Green, and 
shows how comprehendingly Miss Pea- 
body can enter into the thought-world 
of the child. 

But it is this wonderful new drama, 
"The Piper," with its happy combina- 
tion of lyrical and dramatic strength, 
its fine pathos and humor, which will 
make her name live and will cause it to 
be linked with such poetic dramatists 
as Rostand, D'Annunzio, Ibsen and 

In June, 1906, Miss Peabody was 
married to Lionel Marks, professor of 
engineering at Harvard University. 
They went abroad for a year's travel, 
and while in London had the pleasure 
of attending the British-Canadian fes- 
tival concert, when Mrs. Marks' choric 
idyl, "Pan," set to music for voices, 
chorus and orchestra by Harris, was 
given before King Edward. 

Professor Marks., is in close sympa- 
thy with his wife's work, which she 
has continued with unabated zeal since 
her marriage. From their pleasant 
home at 88 Lakeview avenue, Cam- 
bridge, she sailed early in April for 
England, in order to witness the re- 
hearsals of her play. Professor Marks' 
duties at the university prevented him 
from crossing with Mrs. Marks and their 
two children, but he will join them in 
June. He was born in Birmingham, 
England, and his people live in War- 
wickshire, not many miles from Strat- 

While Mrs. Marks is an industrious 
author and student, she is by no means 
a recluse, and possesses many social 
charms. She has a delicate, flower- 
like beauty, a quaint, half-serious man- 
ner, and converses exceptionally well. 

The annual Shakespeare festival will 
be on a more elaborate scale this year 
than usual, and will continue a full 
week longer than heretofore. All the 
dramatic arrangements are entrusted 
to F. R. Benson, who has had charge 



of these festivals for more than twenty 
years. Especial care is being taken 
that "The Piper" shall have the best 
possible production. Miss Marian 
Terry takes a leading part, the inciden- 
tal music has had careful attention, 
while the first scenic artists of the 
kingdom have been at work upon the 
scenery ever since the prize was 

For the benefit of a local charity a 
reading of "The Piper" was given at 
the Longfellow House one afternoon in 
April. Without the aid of actors or 

woods and open sky; and she makes 
the Piper bring the children back in 
the end, because of the supreme mother- 
love of one woman." 

The play opens in the marketplace of 
Hamelin — time 1284 Anno Domini. A 
party of strolling players are just con- 
cluding their show, "A Noah's ark mira- 
cle play of the rudest." The priest, An- 
selm, is preaching to the gathered citi- 
zens ; the burgomaster is haggling with 
the Piper, who now claims his prom- 
ised reward for ridding the town of its 
pest. There is a charm in every word 

Shakespeare; memorial theatre at Strateord 

stage settings the characters stood out 
most clearly from the power of the 
lines alone. The story is that of the 
"Pied Piper of Hamelin," with the su- 
pernatural element well-nigh banished. 
"Miss Peabody tells us that the 'hollow 
hill' was no more than the cellarage of 
a ruined monastery, the shelter of a 
band of gypsies, and the Piper but a 
gypsy man, with more than usual of 
the understanding of the child-heart 
and the psychology of suggestion, a 
dreamer with a passionate desire to 
teach man the care-free life of the 

which describes to the reader the per- 
sons in the square. Barbara, daughter 
of Jacobus, the oily burgomaster; 
young Michael, the sword-swallower; 
Jan, the little, lame son of Veronika, 
gaze at the central figure, the Piper, 
who opens a conversation with the 

Is this your boy? 

Veronika — Ay, he is mine; my only 
one. He loved thy piping so. 

Piper — And I loved his. 

Han's wife (stridently) — Poor little 
boy! He's lame! 



Piper — 'T is all of us are lame ! But 
he, he flies. 

Veronika — Jan, stay here if you will, 
and hear the pipe, at churchtime. 

Piper (to him)— Wilt thou? 

Jan (softly) — Mother lets me stay 
here with the Lonely Man. 

Piper — The Lonely Man? 

(Jan points to the Christ in the 
shrine. Veronika crosses herself. The 
Piper looks long at the little boy.) 

Veronika — He always calls him so. 

Piper — And so would I. 

Veronika — It grieves him that the 
head is always bowed, and stricken. 
But he loves more to be here than yon- 
der in the church. 

Piper — And so do I. 

Veronika — What would you, darling, 
with the Lonely Man? What do you 
wait to see? 

Jan (shyly) — To see Him smile. 

After the conference of the burghers 
the Piper is offered fifteen guilders in 
place of the thousand originally prom- 
ised. While he indignantly refuses the 
organ calls the people to prayer and 
the Piper would be alone in the square 
save for the children who cluster about 
him begging him to pipe. In anger 
and pity he wonders why these little 
ones should be left to grow up among 
such selfish, grasping folk — and then he 
pipes softly the Kinderspell. 

"The children stop first, and look 
at him, fascinated ; then they laugh, 
drowsily, and creep closer — Jan always 
near. They crowd around him. He 
pipes louder, moving backwards slowly, 
with magical gestures, towards the 
little by-streets and the closed doors. 
The doors open everywhere. 

"Out come the children : little ones 
in nightgowns; bigger ones, with play- 
things, toy animals, dolls. He pipes, 
gayer and louder. They pour in, right 
and left. Motion and music fill the air. 
The Piper lifts Jan to his shoulder 
(dropping the little crutch) and 
marches off up the street at the rear, 
piping, in the midst of them all. 

"Last, out of the minster come 
tumbling two little acolytes in red, and 
after them, Peter the Sacristan. He 
trips over them in his amazement and 

terror ; and they are gone after the van- 
ishing children before the church- 
people come out." 

Up in the hollow of the hill the Piper 
stitches away at tiny red shoes, count- 
less ones, for the children, as they sleep. 
A pot is boiling over a fire of faggots. 
But one has dreamed — poor Rudi, that 
"Lump" was dead. His crying wakes 
the other children who explain to the 
Piper that "Lump" was their favorite 
dog. Whereon he speaks : 

Piper' (shocked and pained) — The 
dog ! — No, no. Heaven save us — I for- 
got about the dogs ! 

Rudi — He wanted me — and I always 
wasn't there ! And people tied him up 
— and other people pretended that he 
bit. He never bites ! He wanted me, 
until it broke his heart, and he was 
dead ! 

Piper (struggling with his emotion) 
— And then he went to heaven to chase 
the happy cats up all the trees — little 
white cats ! He wears a 

golden collar ... And sometimes 
— (aside) — I'd forgot about the dogs! 
Well, dogs must suffer, so that men 
grow wise. 'Twas ever so. 

There must also be piped a Dance- 
spell for Barbara that she may be happy 
with Michael, instead of being banished 
to the nunnery. She recalls his Kinder- 
spell and says : 

You bewitched them ! 

Piper — Yes, so it seems. But how? 
Upon my life, 'tis more than I know — 
yes, a little more. 

(Rapidly: Half in earnest and half 
in whimsy.) Sometimes it works, and 
sometimes no. There are some things, 
upon my soul, I cannot do. 

How do I know? If I knew all, why 

should I care to 


No, no! The 

game is What-Will-Happen-Next? 


The spell performs its magic, 
the plea: 

Will you go with him? He will be 
gentler to you than a father; he would 
be brothers five and dearest friend. 
And sweetheart — ay, and knight and 
servingman ! 
comes the woman's yielding: 



All, all for thee ! (She leans over in 
a playful rapture and binds her hair 
about him.) Look — I will be thy 
garden that we lost. Yea, everywhere 
— in every wilderness. There shall 
none fright us with a flaming sword!" 
But I will be thy garden ! 

While rage and mourning consume 
the hearts of the parents the children 
are leading joyful lives in the moun- 
tains with the devoted Piper who has 
no thought of relinquishing them, until 
one day he meets the desperate, hag- 
gard Veronika, hunting for Jan. After 
he has stonily refused the mother's 
plea, he stops before the shrine of the 
Christ, the Lonely Man, and struggles 

I will not, no I will not, Lonely 
Man! I have them in my hand. I 
have them all — all — all ! And I have 
lived unto this day. (He waits as if 
for some reply. He pleads, defends, 
excuses passionately, before his will 
gives way, as the arrow flies from the 

bowstring.) — I will not give them back! 

Look, Lonely Man ! You shall have 
all of us to wander the world over, 
where You stand at all the crossways, 
and on lonely hills — outside the 
churches, where the lost ones go ! And 
the wayfaring men, and thieves and 
wolves, and lonely creatures, and the 
ones that sing!- We will show all men 
what we hear and see; and we will 
make Thee lift Thy head and smile. 

No, no, I cannot give them all ! No, 
no. Why wilt Thou ask it? Let me 
keep but one. No, no, I will not. 

. . . Have Thy way. I will ! 

Veronika lies ill — the priest declares 
that her soul is passing — but the Piper 
woos her back to life by placing Jan 
within her arms. 

There are other children to be 

The Piper sounds a few notes; then 

View from Stratford Memorial Theatre 



Avenue to Trinity Church 

lifts his hand and listens, smiling. — 
Uproar in the distance. — A great bark- 
ing of dogs ; shouts and cheers ; then 
the high, sweet voices of the children. 
The piping is drowned in cries of joy. 
The sun comes out, still rosy, in a 
flood of light. The crowd rushes in. 
Fat burghers hug each other, and laugh 
and cry. They are all younger. Their 
faces bloom, as by a miracle. The 
children pour in.' Some are carried, 
some run hand-in-hand. Everywhere 
women embrace their own. — An up- 
roar of light and faces. 

"Ah, the high-road now," says the 
Piper, and, having kept his promise to 
the Lonely Man he disappears, and, 
from the distance, comes the far-off 
sound of piping. 

These brief extracts give but an im- 
perfect hint of the prize play. A 
reading of the complete work, for 
which every lover of literature must 
thank Miss Peabody, will but whet the 
appetite to see its stage production. 

American interest in Stratford-on- 
Avon is intense' and perpetual. Wash- 
ington Irving's private chapel at Red 
Horse Inn is a reminder of his famous 
visit there. It is recorded that Barnum's 
eager proposal to purchase the Shake- 
speare cottage and move it to America 
was what induced the English people, 
suddenly startled, to buy it for the na- 
tion. Le Gallienne says : "The people of 
Stratford are good priests. They do 
not forget the services to the great 
dead in whose green temple they are all 
more or less directly servants. The 
humblest shopkeeper is proudly con- 
scious that he keeps his shop in 
Shakespeare's town, while the inn- 
keepers regard themselves as veritable 
high-priests of this mystery which so 
many cross the Atlantic and so few 
cross England, to revere." In one of 
his own many pilgrimages to the town, 
as he noted the signature of William 
Winter in the visitors' book, he com- 
mented appreciatively: "He will some 
day be remembered, less because he 



was the first dramatic critic of Amer- 
ica, as because he loved our Stratford 
so well." W. Winter, who is a New 
Englander, writes, in his "Gray and 
Gold" : "It is, in part, to Americans 
that Stratford owes its Shakespeare's 
Memorial ; for while the land on which 
it stands was given by that public- 
spirited citizen of Stratford, Charles 
Edwin Flower, a sound and fine 
Shakespeare scholar, as his acting 
edition of the plays may testify, and 
while money to pay for the building 
of it was freely contributed by 
wealthy residents of Warwickshire, 
and by men of all ranks throughout 
the kingdom, the gifts and labors of 
Americans were not lacking to that 
good cause. Edwin Booth was one 
of the earliest contributors to the 
Memorial Fund, and the names of 
Herman Vezin, M. D. Conway, W. H. 
Reynolds, Mrs. Bateman, Louise 
Chandler Moulton, occur in the first 
list of its subscribers. Miss Kate Field 
worked for its advancement with re- 
markable energy and practical success. 
Miss Mary Anderson acted for its 
benefit in 1885. . . ." The libraries 
of the Birthplace and of the Memorial 
alike contain gifts of American books. 
The Jubilee gift of a drmking-fountain 
made to Stratford by George W. Childs 
of Philadelphia was dedicated on Oc- 
tober 17, 1887. Henry Irving delivered 
an eloquent address, and then read a 
poem composed for the occasion by 
Oliver Wendell Holmes. 

To go back to the beginning of 
things : feeling was strong at the Ter- 
centenary Festival in 1864 that some 
fitting memorial should be erected to 
Shakespeare. In 1874 the project was 
practically revived by the presentation 

of the site and one thousand pounds 
by C. E. Flower, who expressed the 
desire that the monument should take 
the form of a Memorial Theatre. The 
first stone of this theatre was laid on 
Shakespeare's birthday, 1877, with full 
Masonic ceremonies. The Inaugural 
Festival of its opening was held April 
23, 1879. Kate Field recited the dedi- 
catory poem written for the occasion 
by a Londoner and there was a produc- 
tion of "Much Ado About Nothing." 
Miss Field's interest may have been 
quickened by the fact that an ancestor 
of hers, Nathaniel Field, was an 
Elizabethan dramatist, a member of 
Shakespeare's company of players, 
whose play, "Woman as a Weather- 
cocke," is often quoted. 

The group of memorial buildings 
comprise the theater, which seats less" 
than a thousand; a library and a pic- 
ture gallery. In the two latter are as- 
sembled all the books upon Shakespeare 
which have been published, and many 
choice paintings which illustrate his 
life and works. 

The Church of the Holy Trinity, 
which is Shakespeare's grave, and the 
Memorial are quite near each other. 
The acres of vacant land belonging to 
the Memorial estate will be beautified 
as the years go by, and the walks and 
gardens by Avon's stream will take on ; 
if possible, greater charms. The inter- 
est and importance of the Shakespeare 
festival will also increase, but perhaps 
never will Americans, bearing in mind 
both the historical spot and the staging 
of "The Piper," exclaim again so fer- 
vently : 

O to be in England, 
Now that April's here ! 

The Taet family tree 

On the Trail of the Pioneer Tafts 


Librarian of the Uxbridge Free Public Library 


UR family have not embarked 
much upon national politics, 
except that they have shared in 
the battles of the country when na- 
tional independence was to be won and 
also when the Union was at stake. But 
brilliant political careers have not been 
characteristic of the Tafts in the past. 
It is not safe to say what may yet be in 
store for them. 'There is a tide in the 
affairs of men/ and so of families." 
These words, that were spoken by Judge 
Alphonso Taft in an historical address 
given before the Taft family gathering 
in Uxbridge, Mass., on August 12, 
1874, were prophetic. In the eminent 
position now held by his son their pre- 
diction has been fulfilled. The Taft 
family tree has at last borne a Presi- 
dent. Thereupon, Taft homes, Taft rel- 
ics and Taft burial spots have become 
of mighty interest. The tide of this in- 
terest rose to its full during the sum- 
mer months in the old towns of Men- 
don and -Uxbridge. For it was there, 
when the villages were one, 'way back 
in 1680, that the pioneer carpenter, 
Robert Taft, came with his wife and 
builded him a home. 
. This article is written that far-off 
Tafts may know what remains may be 
found of their earty ancestors. The an- 
swers to questions that have been asked 
by the visitors regarding landmarks 
and families form its basis. 

The first source of information to 
which any one interested in the family 
turns is to Judge Alphonso's address. 
It is so complete and accurate that suc- 
ceeding genealogical students have 
been able to add little to it. It is an 
historical document of the greatest 
value. The inspiration received from 

reading it is what has sent many of the 
summer pilgrims journeying to Men- 
don and Uxbridge. And there they find 
that the words of Judge £hapin, the 
poet of the Taft family gathering, still 
ring true : 

"In early days, old people say, 

A stranger in this town 
When going up the road one day 

Met some one coming down. 
'Good morning, Mr. Taft !' said he ; 

The fellow onty laughed, 
And said, 'Just how, explain to me, 

You know my name is Taft?' 

The stranger said, 'I've only met 

A dozen since I came, 
And all but one who've spoken yet 

Have answered to the name. 
So, judging from a fact like this, 

I candidly confess 
I thought I could not hit amiss 

And ventured on a guess.' " 

It is in Mendon that the family for- 
tunes started, so it is there that the 
eager genealogist should begin his pil- 
grimage by viewing the houselot where 
Robert and Sarah Taft built their home. 
This is upon the east side of what is 
now known as Nipmuck Lake, some- 
what less than a mile from Mendon 
center. Robert and his five sons in 
time came to own all the land that en- 
compassed the beautiful sheet of water, 
so that it was long called Taft's Pond. 
For over two hundred years descend- 
ants of the Tafts held this land and con- 
trolled the pond, but as the twentieth 
century opened, Old Mendon, that rail- 
roads of steam had left afar off and 
sleeping, was awakened by the swish 




and swirl of the "Broomstick Train" 
as it rushed from Uxbridge by the 
woods and waters of Tafts, through the 
drowsy center and on to Milford. Then 
the groves upon the west side of the 
picturesque lake were sold to the Mil- 
ford & "Oxbridge Street Railroad, and 
upon the site where beaux and belles of 
the past generations had picnicked and 
danced the buildings of an extensive 
pleasure resort were erected. Now the 
skating rink, bowling alleys, dancing 
pavilion, outdoor theater and other 
sports of Lake Nipmuck Park attract 
thousands of visitors while the sum- 

both also residents of Mendon, own 
land adjacent to the original houselot. 

When the proceedings of the Taft 
family gathering were published an ap- 
peal was printed in it for funds "to pro- 
cure and erect a suitable monument to 
our honored ancestor." This was to be 
erected upon the farm of Alanson. 
From information that can be gathered 
now, there seems to have been little 
material result from this. Later, in 
1897, a similar appeal was printed and 
sent to members of the family. The 
fund then raised was deposited in the 
Uxbridge Savings Bank, and Daniel W. 

The odd Taet tavern, residence oE Miss S. F. TaET 

mer months last. The place is no dese- 
cration of the land cleared by the sturdy 
pioneers, for order and decency prevail 
on every side. The old towns have been 
fortunate in the recreation ground that 
has sprung up near them. 

The site of the first Robert's house, 
as has been said, was on the east of the 
lake. Of it there are no remains. The 
house now standing there is owned by 
Alanson Taft of Mendon. He no longer 
occupies it, but prefers to spend his 
days of old age in the village with his 
daughter. Luther and Austin Taft, 

Taft was appointed treasurer. About 
this date a committee consisting of Ar- 
thur R. Taft and Henry G. Taft of Ux- 
bridge conferred with Alanson Taft re- 
garding the erection of the proposed 
monument. They were unable to reach 
an agreement, so the matter lapsed and 
none was built. The money, now 
amounting to over $500, still lies idle 
in the bank, under the trusteeship of 
D. Wendell Taft, Daniel's only son. 
The impetus of another enthusiastic 
Taft gathering is needed to make the 
monument an actuality. The spot now 



stands unmarked. The placard shown 
in the picture is a temporary one. 

In Mendon village visitors may also 
find landmarks of interest. High on a 
hill sits Mother Mendon, still rural, 
calm and beautiful. Her pleasant farms 
look off over her daughter towns where 
jarring mills have attracted the popu- 
lace. Here may be found in the old 
graveyard the burial spot of one of 
Robert's sons, Daniel. The cellar of 
Daniel's house is also shown. The site 
where the first three meeting houses 
stood has been made into "Founders' 
Park," through the instrumentality of 

it, that they might easily reach their 
estates where the best land lay. The 
family succeeded in getting the town of 
Mendon to vote "that Mr. Taft and his 
sons should be freed from working at 
the highways, in case they build a 
bridge over the 'Great River' to the 
land on the west side of said river, until 
other men's work come to be propor- 
tionable to theirs in working upon the 
highways." This was in 1709. Judge 
Alphonso Taft says : "The bridge was 
built and was probably the first bridge 
ever built over that river." Later, in 
1729, the Tafts built a second bridge a 

Interior oe Unitarian church, Mendon 

the Mendon Historical Society, and a 
suitable tablet has been erected there. 

Robert's sons, Thomas, Robert and 
Daniel, were each given a part of the 
original lot of land and thereupon built 
and occupied houses. The two younger 
sons, Joseph and Benjamin, crossed the 
"Great River," now the Blackstone,and 
built their homes upon the fertile in- 
tervales of Uxbridge. When these sons 
of Father Robert, in their zeal for land, 
began farming these extensive tracts on 
the west bank of the "Great River," a 
need at once arose for a bridge to cross 

short distance below the first, and this 
time the town allowed them sixty 
pounds toward expense. It is a pleas- 
ant walk to the site of this old bridge. 
A lane opposite the Henry G. Taft es- 
tate leads directly to it through rich 
meadow lands, where wild flowers 
bloom and birds sing. The west abut- 
ment still stands in good condition, 
though builded nearly two hundred 
years ago. It looks as if it might stand 
yet another generation, though the 
river's current there flows swift and 
strong. Upon the east bank some of 




Homestead oe the late Edward C. Thayer, now owned by Mrs. W. A. L. Bazeley 

the uncemented rocks are still to be 
seen, showing - that the Tafts knew well 
how to build. While the traffic of this 
day takes another course, the old road 
is being washed away and overgrown, 
and the fragments of the old bridge 
stand alone in picturesque decay. 

There are now three large farms and 
one small one upon this western Taft 
land and all are owned by descendants 
of the family, all are highly cultivated 
and all are kept in the finest order. The 
houses are furnished with interesting 
old relics, and traditions of bygone 
Tafts can be culled from ancient rec- 
ords and family stories. These are 
model farms, most pleasant to visit. 

The farm situated farthest south is 
owned by Mrs. W. A. L. Bazeley, a de- 
scendant of Daniel. It is occupied by 
her now as a summer residence. The 
house was built by Daniel's son, Baza- 
leel, and has been owned since. by his 
direct descendants. Mrs. Bazeley's lit- 
tle daughters represent the fifth genera- 
tion that has lived in the old house. 

The adjoining farm is the property 

of the Henry G. Taft estate. This also 
is open only in the summer, a farmer 
being in charge during the winter. 

The land occupied by the next farms 
was originally the property of Joseph, 
the ancestor of President Taft. A small 
portion of his houselot is now in pos- 
session of Mrs. Eugene Farnum, who 
lives there in an attractive little house 
with her family. 

The last farm is the spot in Uxbridge 
most closely connected with President 
Taft, for it was there that the house of 
his great-great-grandfather stood. No 
remains of the house are now there, but 
near the supposed site is the cellar of a 
barn that was standingwithin the mem- 
ory of man. This cellar was probably 
that of one of Joseph's buildings. The 
farm is now divided by the main 
road running between Providence and 
Worcester. Across the road from the 
cellar stands the house of the farm's 
present owner, George Zadoc Taft. He 
is a descendant of Aaron, who was a 
brother of the President's Great-great- 
grandfather Peter. 



Scattered throughout Uxbridge are 
the homes of countless Tafts, all de- 
scendants of the first Robert. On every 
hand are signs of their thrift and indus- 

The Taft homestead that has at- 
tracted the most attention in the past 
is that owned by Miss Sarah F. Taft. 
Here George Washington stopped over 
night during his first presidency. The 
story of this has been told so many 
times that it is hardly necessary to re- 
peat it here. The best account of the 
old house is contained in a pamphlet 
written by Miss Taft, called "The Old 
Taft Tavern." This was published by 
the Deborah Wheelock Chapter, D. A. 
R., of Uxbridge. 

The Thayer Memorial Building, the 
home of the Uxbridge Free Public Li- 
brary, was given by Edward C. Thayer 
in memory of his father and his Taft 

mother. The walls of the building are 
hung with portraits of the representa- 
tive men and women of past genera- 
tions, and the majority of these bear 
the name of Taft. In the building 
now also hangs one of the Taft 
family trees, loaned by Arthur R. 
Taft. This tree was drawn in 1862 
by Dr. Jonathan Taft of Cincinnati. 
The plate was shortly afterwards 
destroyed by fire, so that it is no 
longer possible to get copies of the 
original. It has, however, been photo- 
graphed by E. A. Adams of Whitins- 
ville, Mass. 

And so, in these villages of old Mas- 
sachusetts — ■ 

"Old Robert's stockisstrongandsound, 

And while the waters run 
This vine shall spread its roots around. 

And bud and blossom on !" 

Site of the first Taft house in Uxbridge 

The proceedings of the Taft family gathering were published shortly after the 
meeting. The president of the association then formed, Daniel W. Taft, bore the expense 
of the publication. He died July 27, 1906. 

When The Shadows Lengthen 


TO many of the minor ends of ex- 
istence one may take cross-cuts. 
Parnassus has been gained by a 
single bound and the Midas-touch con- 
ferred, all in a few brief moons, by a 
patent pill or a hair-crimper. But as 
yet, not one has discovered any method 
of shortening the regular schedule time 
required to win the mellow virtues and 
graces which properly belong to old 

Undeniably, old age, or its simula- 
tion, has sometimes been gained pre- 
maturely by means of black arts; but 
never, in such cases has there been 
won with it the effulgent charms which 
make the aureola of old age. Indeed, 
old age won by black arts bears the 
same resemblance to the legitimate 
brand under discussion that a yellow, 
worm-eaten wind-fall bears to the 
sound and mellow fruit, which falls, 
not because it has a worm at its center, 
but from the slow ripening processes of 
Nature. Bearing gentle witness to 
similar beneficent processes, there have 
been in every age of the world silver- 
haired saints whose characters sug- 
gest the choice qualities which belong 
to rare old violins and mellow wines. 

Pursuing the comparison farther, 
however, one discovers by consulting 
the files of memory that time, alone, 
is powerless to confer the mellow rich- 
ness mentioned. A poor violin, a poor 
wine or a bad man cannot rely upon 
the years for any title to honor. Po- 
lonius was old, but his gray hairs were 
not a crown of glory. Falstaff, also, 
came at last "within range of the rifle- 
pits" only to hear from King Hal the 
stinging rebuke: 

"How ill white hairs become a fool and 

I have long dreamed of such a kind I 

of man, 
So surfeit-swelled, so old and so pro- j 


And life, in painful verification of 
Shakespeare, gives every generation 
sorry duplicates of Polonius and Fal- 
staff, as well as thousands of other vari- 
ations of old age, unhaloed and un- 
hallowed because the proper ingredi- 
ents were not mixed with the passing 
years. But a brief recognition of the 
existence of such grey-haired repro- 
bates is happily all that lies within the 
purpose of this paper, which concerns 
itself, instead, with the more grateful 
study of cases in which old age has 
matched in itself now the warm blue 
enchantment of Indian Summer, or 
again, the deep, rich tints of a linger- 
ing afterglow. 

The privilege of knowing a good old 
gentleman or a good old lady is one 
whose rare value is seldom recognized 
by myopic youth. It is only when time 
begins to warn one with the italics of a 
gray hair or two, and the deepening of 
facial lines, that one can have the per- 
spective which shows the lacks of 
youth and the gains of age. From this 
vantage-ground, looking before and 
after, one appreciates how beneficently 
it was ordained that most of us should 
have grandparents, or, lacking these, 
the opportunity to know the grand- 
parents of others. For how beautifully 
does a beautiful old age answer most 
of the vitally poignant questions of 
life ! Sooner or later, some disillusion 
makes us level against the universe 
the old, old queries: 

Is life worth living? What is it all 
for, anyway? 

How the questions dissolve, like sun 



dispelled mist, in the presence of any 
grey-haired conqueror whose face 
banishes all doubt in an illuminated 
table of beatitudes. Compared with a 
group of these human documents — the 
souls' authentic monographs on life, 
written in the slow cryptograph of 
thought and feeling, — how trivial look 
the material possessions which some- 
times possess the collectors of time- 
tinted folios and old engravings. . For 
while I cannot deny a certain accelera- 
tion of my own heart-beats at the sight 
of hoary volumes and old furniture 
which majestically triumph over their 
futilely dapper successors, there is an- 
other antiquarian field whose enchant- 
ments lure me far more strongly. So it 
follows that I would not exchange for 
all the treasures of the richest attics 
of antiquarian dreams my own collec- 
tion whose value is beyond all mone- 
tary computation. 

In a word, while others have been 
collecting old tea-cups, old chairs and 
old clocks, I have for a number of years 
collected nice old ladies and nice old 
gentlemen. Of course, nobody will so 
far misunderstand me as to fancy that 
these nice' old ladies and nice old 
gentlemen have been materially cap- 
tured, like so many curios, and stored 
up to excite the envy of neighboring 
collectors. No, indeed, my antiquarian 
kingdom has not come by violence, but 
by observation, unmarred by any 
vulgar haggling 'twixt buyer and 
seller. The collectee has never known 
when he or she was being collected for 
the silent galleries of memory. And 
though within the strangely elastic 
walls enclosing them, they are often 
brought cheek by jowl by the laws of 
association, they have never met each 
other in what is so quaintly called 
"real life." There, their ways have 
lain wide asunder — as wide in some 
cases as the unknown space which lies 
between us and the Undiscovered 

And yet, had they known each other 
in "real life," I feel sure that they 
would all have found each other as 
lovable as I have found all of them. 
In truth, I must confess that my fancy 

has made many a fine holiday for it- 
self by pairing off my collectees in the 
cosiest of tete-a-tetes. One gallant 
old nonagenarian, in particular, I have 
made much happier than I fear Fate 
has allowed him to be in the lonely 
thirty years he was left mateless. 

Not that I would for worlds tamper 
with the unique and tender constancy 
which was one of the qualities which 
elected him to halo-rights in my Al- 
mond-Tree Society. But some harm- 
less Platonic pleasures my fancy has 
apportioned him in the companionship 
of two or three of the most bewitching 
of my old ladies. And the bewitching 
old ladies are nothing averse. I can 
see them now, beaming upon him, with 
smiles that seem a translation of the 
subtle fragrance of rose-petals pressed 
many years between the leaves of a 
book. I have even allowed the very 
nicest old lady — but there ! why should 
you not meet her yourself and some 
of the rest of these charmers and un- 
derstand why the sight of silver locks 
arouses in me more pulsing expecta- 
tions than the choicest piece of faience 
can excite in the bosom of a connois- 

And as other antiquarians begin with 
the proud exhibition of their rarest 
treasure, so shall I with one of my 
most cherished possessions — Saint 
Benedicta, as I sometimes call her, 
though more often the Lady of Light. 

I discovered her in a New England 
city, the next day after I had seen the 
new moon over my right shoulder, and 
for months she seemed too good to be 
true. But I found that she was as 
true as she was good and much more. 
In sober truth, she sometimes seems 
too young to belong to my collection, 
although she is in her eightieth year. 
And yet her youthfulness at that age 
is one of the reasons why I collected 
her. Even were she but sixty, I should 
still find some pretext for including 
her among the chosen because of her 
remarkable mastery of the difficult art 
of growing old. 

Even her soft, silver hair utterly re- 
jects the usual insignia of age, retain- 
ing about her temples a few coquet- 



tish waves that accord well with the 
unimpaired twinkle of her eyes. And 
by this same twinkle you may know 
her most dominant characteristics. 
For the twinkle does not come slowly, 
like the delayed report from the far- 
oft end of a lighted fuse, but as in- 
stantaneously as light follows the turn 
of an electric switch. So the twinkle 
is the outward and visible sign of a 
keen responsiveness to everything in 
the universe that was ordained to in- 
cite a twinkle. Nor less easily do the 
same eyes grow sympathetically ten- 
der and overflow whenever the emo- 
tional deeps are stirred. 

The resilient qualities which have 
preserved Queen Benedicta's twinkle 
may also account for her delightful 
girlishness from which time and all the 
experiences of life have failed to rub 
the bloom. If one should try to make 
one word cover her composite lovable- 
ness, charm would be the most exact 
term, inasmuch as it conveys no exact 
meaning and thus shares the indefin- 
ableness which it seeks to define. Yet 
elusive as this composite quality may 
be, one is tempted to find its prismatic 
colors by analytical refraction. In this 
case I think the result of the experi- 
ment would show imagination, sen- 
sitiveness, sympathy, tact, courtesy and 
genuine kindness of heart. 

It would be pleasant to believe that 
one might acquire all of these quali- 
ties and compound them together into 
charm. But alas! "truth is sad," as 
Emerson observed, and if one squares 
one's conclusion to facts, one must 
admit that charm is a cradle gift. One 
is born with it or one is not, as a 
flower either has or has not fragrance. 
So I know that Queen Benedicta must 
have been a charming baby, a charm- 
ing four-year-old, also charming at 
ten, sixteen, twenty, twenty-five, thirty, 
and forty. Yet at none of these ages 
could she have been quite so charming, 
I think, as I now find her at eighty. 
For the fairy vow that is given with 
the dower of charm declares that its 
power can never be stolen by the thiev- 
ing hands of Time. On the contrary, 
Time seems disposed to give to him 

that hath charm that he may have more 
abundantly. Almost it would seem 
that each factor of charm possesses 
magnetic properties which work to- 
gether for the good of the charmer. 

So much is probably true of even 
the most secular charmer. But my 
Lady Benedicta is still more than that. 
For she has put out at interest the 
natal principal given to her by the 
fairies, and at such rates of interest 
as are given by Christianity alone. By 
means of this spiritual thrift she has 
achieved in herself what the florists 
have done in producing the multi- 
petaled, velvet Jacqueminot rose from 
its wild ancestor with the scanty cor- 
olla. Or, to state the fact in other 
terms, charm, plus the increments of 
religious idealism is charm raised to 
its highest power. A comparison, 
moreover, of the various members of 
my Almond-Tree Society has convinced 
me that an irreligious old lady gives 
one a feeling of sympathetic loneli- 
ness. There is only one such in my 
whole collection, a woman of ninety. 
She was included because she has a 
certain stoical sincerity which lends 
dignity to her paganism. She never 
prays, as she frankly declares that she 
never could see that it did any good, 
and so she "quit it." She thinks life 
does not furnish the entertainment 
offered by its various hand bills, but 
she promises to "die game," and face 
whatever is next as she has faced the 
reverses of the world she has known. 

I like this old lady exceedingly and 
I respect her genuineness ; yet she 
leaves me always with a chilly emo- 
tional fringe. Old ladies are certainly 
nicer when they say their prayers and 
believe in them. Then the habit of 
praying does add a spiritual embellish- 
ment, not otherwise obtainable, to their 
faces as well as to their lives. I am, 
therefore, glad that all the rest of my 
old ladies and old gentlemen have "a 
correspondence fixed wi' heaven." 

Returning to Queen Benedicta, as 
everyone does who knows her, a few 
more words of appreciation are due 
before passing to the consideration of 
any of my other treasures. If you 



hould ever chance to see her, you 
would discover all that this paper 
-ecords much more beautifully written 
n her face. Beside its lines of spirit- 
ual distinction, its humorous curves, 
ts wistfully tender lights and shadows, 
the blank, unedited face of my youth- 
ul belle I know seems like a high- 
:olored chromo beside the mellow 
Dainting of an old master. 

Again and again I have surrepti- 
iously studied Queen Benedicta's face 
while she bent over her wonderful em- 
3roideries and tried to find out how 
she has done it. Like the bee she has 
cnown how to distil sweetness alone 
: rom the same field where others have 
aken away only thorn-pricks and 
Iburrs. While I cannot fathom her 
secret I have indulged in many a 
j^uess. Perhaps she has distilled 
sweetness, only, because she was on 
Be look-out for that in everybody. 
Again, I have fancied that when others 
gave her pain, she has temporarily 
vanished the thought of the offender 
ind the offense, striving only to keep 
ler own heart in perfect tune, until 
:he other heart caught the harmony 
)y contagion. 

It is trifling but significant evidence 
o the kinetic power of her graces that 

ueen Benedicta still receives valen- 
ines from her admirers of all ages. 
Mor are they the "ready-made" kind, 
vith appreciations as loosely adjustable 
is a golf-cap. Among her invoice of 
valentines for 1909 there was one 
vhose estimate of her so perfectly 
coincides with mine that it may fit- 
ingly close my tribute to the Lady 
)f Light : 

The Winter snow may hide away 
The flowrets sweet that dreaming lie, 
But snowy locks cannot conceal 
IVhat blossoms in my sweetheart's eye. 

or hardy blooms of grace are these, 
Afhose roots within the heart spring 


Vnd every year but adds new flowers 
Nhere love and faith the garden keep. 

With such ceremony as is accorded 

a true sovereign, we may now move in 
backward recessional from the pres- 
ence of Queen Benedicta and meet the 
Lady Seigerin, so called, because of 
noble victories wrested from many 
battle-fields of pain. And though she 
no longer dwells with us in visible 
form, I think you may still see her 
when memory has developed the spirit- 
ual negatives which she left behind. 

Lady Siegerin was a woman of re- 
gal mould in mind and body. She 
had wonderfully liquid brown eyes and 
a forehead that promised all that her 
character fulfilled. So sensitively 
organized was the physical material 
used by her soul, that when her vizor 
was down there seemed to be more 
said in her silent expression than when 
the average woman is talking. She 
was a woman who always got hold of 
the big end of things, though the first 
half of her life fell in an age that had 
not yet opened its eyes to the fact that 
it is a national calamity when women 
are so frivolous-minded that their com- 
panionship is undesirable for their hus- 
bands and children. 

Being a woman of engrossingly 
large aims and ideals, it was a natural 
corollary that the Lady Siegerin never 
nagged. Illuminating this negative 
virture, a saying of hers still survives 
in the family to which she belonged. 
Someone in her presence had detailed 
somewhat too amply the petty wrang- 
lings and disputes which were of daily 
occurrence between a well-known 
nagger and her husband. Lady Sieg- 
erin listened quietly until all the evi- 
dence was in, when she remarked in the 
richly modulated voice which was so 
harmoniously hers : "It would be so 
much better to have one Waterloo 
battle and have things settled." 

If for no other reason, the honors 
which she carried away from her own 
Waterloos would have made me choose 
Lady Siegerin to adorn my collection. 
She lost her husband, a gentleman of 
much distinction, two brilliant daugh- 
ters and then with a respite of only 
a few months between the slings and 
arrows of outrageous fortune, she be- 
came totally blind. Of her deadly 



wrestlings in the physical and spiritual 
darkness which followed no one ever 
heard her speak a word. But when 
she emerged to meet the world her face 
wore the calm strength of a conqueror. 
In its quiet lines of triumph, which had 
grown almost majestic when I knew 
her, one might read a flesh and blood 
translation of Henley's lines : 

"I am the master of my fate; 
I am the captain of my soul." 

Like many others deprived of one 
sense, Lady Siegerin became most 
keenly sensitive in all her others, each 
of which seemed to take on the semi- 
occult edge of intuition. She could de- 
tect the aura of a gentleman with a 
swift inerrancy which would be the 
salvation of many a woman having 
eyes that see not, and she herself was 
always the touch-stone for the gentle- 
man and the boor. The former instinc- 
tively and gladly did homage to her; 
but the boor, thinking she could not 
see, ignored her, little thinking how 
much more she saw without her eyes 
than he with his. 

Among all my youthful memories, 
Lady Siegerin stands out like a sculp- 
tured masterpiece of victory, her half- 
closed eyes still comely in old age and 
every line of her face eloquent with 
heroic grace. 

Near the Lady Siegerin, as these 
visions now group themselves in 
memory, stands a more recent addition 
to my collection, Miss Gentilissima. 
In point of years, she is hardly quali- 
fied for membership in an Almond- 
Tree Society, and should be kept on 
the waiting list at least ten or fifteen 
years. For though her hair is beauti- 
fully grey, I fear she could only pass 
as a near-old beside the rest of my 
treasures. But she is so unmistakably 
an exceptionally fine old lady in the 
making that it would not be sensible 
to let a mere technicality of years out- 
weigh so much evidence of things 
hoped for. 

I suppose Miss Gentilissima would 
be inadequately labeled an "old maid" 
by the vulgar Philistine who has not 

learned that all kinds of women marry 
and all kinds of women don't. "Some 
of the merriest and most genuine 
women are old maids and have often 
most of the true motherly touch," 
wrote Stevenson, whose observation j 
did not stop with the crude perception 
of one or two external facts. To this [ 
class of motherly old maids inventoried! 
by Stevenson, Miss Gentilissima be-l 
longs. She is placed next to Lady| 
Siegerin because she is half blind and,] 
somewhat deaf, but still the captain of I 
her soul. 

Despite the serious barriers placed! 
between her and her fellowmen, Miss I 
Gentilissima is an uncommonly well- 1 
informed, interesting and inspiring I 
woman. She has a fine face,, whose 
dominant expression is gentleness, a \ 
quality which is also revealed in her 1 
voice. In her case, as in Lady Sieger- | 
in's, the inward eye has grown more 
sensitively acute with the dimming of 
the physical vision. With the removal 
of the material objects which some- 
times monopolize the field of vision 
she has learned to see vastly more im- 
portant things, often missed by the 
outer eye and ear. It is perhaps in- 
cidental testimony on this point that 
my first recollection of her face always 
brings a suggestion of spiritual illu- 
mination. Something similar I have | 
seen in the faces of others of her re- 
ligious faith. 'But as this statement 
might lead to the disputatious quick- 1 
sands of comparison, I shall immedi- 
ately put up the bars by confessing 
that I have seen spiritual high lights 
on the faces of men and women of 
every kind of denominational stripe. 

From one or two remarks which I 
heard Miss Gentilissima make I fear 
she has little notion how much she en- 
riches the world, not knowing what she 
gives to it. There are plenty of people 
who can give things, money and more 
or less perishable bric-a-brac, but very 
few whose characters emit light and 
warmth. And who has ever been able 
to measure the value of such light and. 
warmth? Sunlight is all that is needed 
by which to read the time-tables that 
schedule the various routes to the tit- 



termost ends of the earth. But some- 
thing more than the sun can give is 
needed to read correctly the time- 
tables containing all the necessary in- 
formation concerning changes and con- 
nections on the various routes to The 
Kingdom of Light. And this more in- 
tense illumination is given by those 
who, like Miss Gentilissima, are celes- 
tial sign-posts along the narrow way. 

There are in my collection more 
than a dozen other near-old ladies in 
whom I take great pride. Their indi- 
vidual histories, however, could not be 
given without encroaching upon space 
set apart for their elders. So I must 
content myself with grouping them to- 
gether as most promising shoots in my 
Almond-Tree nursery. Neither is there 
space for full length portraits of all my 
octogenarians and nonagenarians. Yet 
it would be a pity to miss meeting 
Madame Sparta, in her ninety-eighth 
year, and as erect in carriage and char- 
acter as a Norway pine. Though she 
lacks something of the gentleness and 
grace of others in my collection she 
has a warm, tender heart and a mind 
still unclouded by the mists of time. 
One star differeth from another star in 
glory, as one tree differeth from an- 
other. Madame Sparta suggests the 
Lombardy poplar, which has a charm 
all its own, while Queen Benedicta 
and Lady Siegerin are sisters of the 
elm, which unites grace with strength. 

Madam Sparta is as fond of her 
flower garden as when her pulses beat 
to livelier measures and many a bou- 
quet is picked and given away by her 
trembling fingers. When she is ill, 
she scorns the coddling attentions of 
those who would nurse her. One ex- 
tremely cold night when she had all 
the symptoms of grippe, someone sug- 
gested a hot-water bottle for her feet. 
"No, indeed," she replied, "I don't 
want to get into any such silly habits." 
Bx pede Herculem. A woman who at 
ninety-seven still refuses to acquire a 
"silly habit" assuredly belongs on the 
honor roll of any discerning society. 

In striking external contrast with 
Madam Sparta are three of my lav- 
ender-and-old-lace ladies. Each of 

these white-haired belles looks as if 
she had just stepped out of an old- 
fashioned miniature painting. Nor 
does that mean that their mental and 
moral adornments will not also bear 
inspection. . It is simply another way 
of saying that one's first impression of 
them is necessarily arrested by the ap- 
parel which "oft proclaims the man," 
and still oftener the woman, who en- 
joys a wider charter of liberty in the 
proclamation. My admiration for these 
three delightful old ladies is so evenly 
divided that there is no significance in 
the order in which they are presented. 
So, without prejudice, you shall meet 
first the one with the whitest hair, 
Lady Bluette, I call her because her 
eyes exactly match the color of that 
flower and also because she has the shy, 
retreating manner of tiny blossoms, 
and a charming blue-tinted guileless- 
ness. Her mind has all the elasticity 
of youth although she is seventy-nine, 
and her capacity for enthusiastic appre- 
ciation is refreshing against the drab 
background of the world's apathetic 
average. Her wit and humor likewise 
retain the instantaneous action com- 
monly supposed to be impaired by 
years. Her smiles, moreover, in a 
world where smiles are none too 
plenty or of the best contour, would 
elect her to my Silver-Lock Club. 

In fine, her whole presence has a 
bay-window effect on those who are 
near her, so that one who sees her can- 
not help wishing that every household 
might have for one of its numbers a 
duplicate of Lady Bluette. 

The second member of my miniature 
group, Lady Jonquil, has also a dainty, 
bo-peeping humor, whose piquancy 
etches with very individual line one's 
mental picture of her. She has a prettv 
habit of clipping all the choicest jokes 
and bits of poetry from newspapers and 
old magazines and sending them in 
letters to people who need to smile. 
Lady Jonquil has a fine eye for color 
and knows precisely what shades may 
be fitly joined with her silken grey 
tresses and darker grey eyes. After 
the bonnets bloom in the spring mar- 
ket-place, Lady Jonquil's friends watch 



for her appearance as the flower-lover 
watches for the unfolding of his fa- 
vorite April blossoms, and they are 
never disappointed. Eschewing all the 
fearful possibilities which confront the 
shopper, Lady Jonquil finds her own 
by the laws of artistic affinity which 
one would like to see duplicated more 
frequently in more important marts. 
Yet you must not think her vain, for 
she is far from it. When she is once 
properly attired she gives the matter 
no more thought, whereas she might 
be likely to if her sartorial election 
were less sure. There are great many 
other happy facts which might be 
chronicled of Lady Jonquil but we 
have still to consider Lady Gratia, the 
third member of the old lace group. 

You may easily identify Lady Gratia 
by a peculiarly undulating gait and a 
curvilinear effect in all her movements 
Nor is this in the least an affectation 
but, as I take it, the result of a fine 
marginal surplus of health and good 
humor. A business woman is often 
obliged to take the shortest line be- 
tween two points, in her walk and con- 
versation, so that she may not play the 
"grace notes" of abundant leisure, much 
as she might like to. But Lady Gratia 
has had all the time she cared to use 
for playing grace notes. So, when she 
rustles across a room one is reminded 
of the beautifully rippled movements 
of the grey squirrels that undulate over 
Boston Common. From their fine mar- 
gin of nonchalance they seem to greet 
the rushing men and women who pass 
with that serene query of Concord, 
"So hot, my little sir!" 

In the mental movements of Lady 
Gratia there is something, too, in per- 
fect harmony with her gait. Again, 
the shortest distance between the idea 
and its expression, covered by the 
epigram, is not for her, however fit- 
tingly it may come from others ; in- 
stead, she uses a pleasant curvilinear 
statement which recognizes the claims 
of beauty as well as of truth. Like 
all the rest of my fine old ladies, with 
one exception, Lady Gratia has a low, 
melodious voice and will stand the test 
which Cardinal Newman gave for dis- 

covering a gentleman, a test equally 
applicable to a lady: "It is almost the 
definition of a gentleman to say that 
he is one who never intentionally 
wounds the feelings of another." 

Having thus far heeded the motto: 
"Place aux Dames," one may now do 
obeisance to the fine old gentlemen 
who have been kept in waiting — 
longer than befits their merits. 

Casting a comparative glance at all 
these old gentlemen (whose number is 
only one less than that of their sisters) 
I am struck with the fact that the "best 
preserved" mentally, morally, and 
physically in the collection are the 
ones with the most twinkle, and the 
same is true of the nice old ladies. 
You will therefore know the star col- 
lectee among the bearded contingent, 
St. Lux, by his sunshine, which eighty 
years have dimmed as little as clouds 
can permanently dim the rays of the 
sun. In character, Saint Lux (with 
Roman pronunciation, please) is a 
happy blend of Saint Paul and John 
the Disciple, with a modern admixture 
of Emerson and a still more modern 
and stronger and sweeter flavoring of 
himself. As Saint Lux is well-known to 
the public, one hesitates to give too full 
an inventory of his charms, even weie 
that a possibility, lest the modest 
original should object to a photograph 
of his halo. Beyond a doubt, Saint 
Lux would b»elong to everybody's 
Almond-Tree Society, if everybody had 
one, so I can claim no more property 
right in him than I have in the blessed 
sunshine which touches a million 
blades and blossoms in its beneficent 
course through planetary space. 

Among my nice old gentlemen are 
several others well known to fame. 
Certainly no Silver-Lock Club would 
fail to enroll the name of Edward 
Everett Hale. The long life and faith 
of the latter recall a statement recently 
made that Unitarianism seemed to be 
conducive to longevity. Be that as 
it may, one might pick from the Uni- 
tarian pulpit alone, beginning with 
the "dear moth-eaten angel," a large and 
choice collection of octogenarians who 
were and are the personification of 




sweetness and light. To these might 
be added large recruits from clerical 
near-olds, now in the Unitarian pulpit, 
who promise to be every bit as lumin- 
ous when their halos have acquired an 
octogenarian diameter. 

Here the reader is entreated not to 
construe this tribute as a comparison 
of the Dogberryish order. For aught 
the writer knows to the contrary, one 
might find as many fine old gentlemen 
in all kinds of pulpits and pews. It 
merely happens that not so many m 
other denominations have come under 
the observation of the writer. Per 
contra, some one else may have an em- 
barrassment of riches in the way of 
collections of orthodox saints, missing 
in his turn the rare heterodox band I 
have known. Among laymen in my 
collection, one of the very best is 
an orthodox octogenarian, the di- 
mensions of whose character you may 
glimpse in a couple of sentences from a 
recent letter. After a long life spent in 
doing little kindnesses this gentleman 
had a paralytic stroke, from which he 
has sufficiently rallied to send this mes- 
sage : "I wish I could write what is in 
my heart, but my brains are still out of 
commission and I am under orders to 
cultivate idiocy. So please wait for 
anything worth while from me till 
sometime or beyond time as it pleases 

Condolence is obviously not indi- 
cated for "idiocy" which can express 
itself with such gracious sanity. . A 
brother and sister of this fine old 
gentleman share his hardy virtues and 
graces and hence hold honor, or seats, 
in my unchartered club. 

There are still a good dozen more 
of these fine old lads who are weH 
worth meeting. But one chambered 
nautilus would prove the existence of 
its species as well as a score. Yet, I 
would have you catch the eye of just 
one more who at this moment glides 
into my memory from beyond the 
earth-lights where he dwells. Such a 
charming little scrap of an old gentle- 
man he was, with grey-biue dancing 
eyes and movements like a fluttering 
partridge. He loved to do good by 

stealth and so cover his tracks that 
there would be no chance of his blush- 
ing to find it fame. To his last days 
he was a delightful companion for 
young and old, and in the town where 
he lived most of his old friends still 
remember some of the quaint quips and 
jests that fell so spontaneously from his 
lips. Dining one day with an old ac- 
quaintance, he explained that he al- 
ways came out ahead on each course 
because he had no teeth and, conse- 
quently, swallowed anything that 
would go through his collar. 

The wife of this engaging old gentle- 
man also adds lustre to my collection. 
But as she nearly paralleled in her 
character the noble traits of her aunt, 
the Lady Siegerin, fuller mention of 
her has been omitted. Others, too, 
there are among the most tenderly 
cherished of all my collection whom 
you have not met because one may not 
so easily lift the veil from the shrine of 
one's nearest kin. Nor is there need 
of more ample numerical proof of the 
beautiful possibilities of old age. If 
there were, I feel sure that nearly every 
reader of this paper by takirig thought 
might subpoena from the nooks and 
byways of memory as many white- 
locked witnesses as have appeared in 
these pages. And could they all be 
brought together, all the Almond-Tree 
Societies of all my readers, would 
they not make a magnificent assem- 
blage, fit to fire the enthusiasm of the 
greatest painters and poets? Such a 
company might well suggest a forest 
of giant sequoias, crowned with a ma- 
jesty wrought by the years and their 
withstanding. Perhaps it is this very 
withstanding, more than anything else, 
that leaves the inspiring record on the 
faces of those who have come into the 
fullest inheritance of old age. It re- 
quires so many more than the adaman- 
tine virtues to withstand the variously 
disguised wiles of the devil. "Having 
done all to stand," wrote the Apostle 
Paul, who had a Roentgen-raying eye 
for discovering the spinal system of any 
subject to which he gave his attention 

In the faces of youth and middle age 
we may read a certain number of the 


chapters of the true stones which life sequel also. And however many chap- 
is writing all about us. Sometimes we ters have left upon the faces of good 
can tell very nearly from these serial old men and women their chronicle of 
fragments and their facial titles how pain and loss, we may still read be- 
the story is coming out. But reading tween the lines of the conclusion that 
the faces of men and women in the there is something even better than 
eighties and the nineties we know the "living happy ever after." 



She was like no other one 

All the parish round; 
In her soul were sea and sun, 

In her laugh the sound 
Of swift waves on shell-strewn sands 

Never man hath found. 

Father, mother, none she knew — 

On the beach one day 
All amazed a fisher crew 

Found a child at play, 
Lithe and white and wild, with hair 

Gemmed with sun-dried spray. 

So they taught their speech to her, 

So she grew apace. 
In her voice the sea-winds stir, 

Like a curved wave's grace 
Moved her slender form — the sea's 

Beauty seemed her face. 

Not a lad the parish round 

But when she drew nigh 
Flung his heart upon the ground 

For her feet to try; 
Not a lad the parish round 

Gained her smile thereby. 

Not for her their prayers and sighs- 
Long day after day, 

From sun rising to moonrise, 
Still her feet would stray 

Where the wild sea beckoned her. 
In its combers play. 

Only one who, day by day, 
Followed her again — • 


One with eyes of stormy gray — 

Passionate with pain 
Of that love despised, that burned 

Hot through heart and brain. 

On the cliff that taunts the mad 

Waves that leap to it, 
So they met there maid and lad — 

Oh, a trysting fit! 
Red the great moon rose as some 

Torch the furies lit. 

Still she mocked him fearlessly — 

Said him still the same — 
'None I love but this, my sea," 

Till the madness came 
In the hungry eyes of him 

Like the red moon's flame. 

'In your lover's arms this night 

Lie you then," quoth he — 
Hand of brown on throat of white 

Swiftly, silently, 
Down her white, young body flashed, 

Down into the sea. 

Know you what he saw who leant, 

Maddened through and through? 
Sudden waves that curved and bent 

As strong arms might do 
When they draw the bride beloved 

To a heart thrice true. 

Know you what he heard, who so 

Grouched there hate-possessed? 
Laughter tremulous and low, 

E'en that laughter blest 
Of the happy bride that lies 

On her lover's breast. 

She was like no other one 

All the parish round ; 
In her soul were sea and sun, 

In her laugh the sound 
Of swift waves on shell-strewn sands 

Never man hath found. 

Margaret Fuller Ossoli 


ON Cherry street, in Cambridge, 
Mass., in a section of the city 
formerly known as Cambridge- 
port, there stands a plain, three-story 
house which bears a large sign upon its 
front: "Margaret Fuller House." In 
this house, then a pretentious mansion, 
Margaret Fuller was born May 23, 
1810. In later years it has suffered the 
vicissitudes of a tenement-house local- 
ity, and it is now used for branch work 
by the Cambridge Young Women's 
Christian Association. On a little knoll 
in West Roxbury, with a dark forest 
behind it and green fields in front which 
stretch away to the silvery Charles, 
stands a quaint, red cottage, shaded by 
cedars. The occasional literary pilgrim 
who seeks the pretty spot is told that 
this is the "Margaret Fuller Cottage," 
the only survivor of the various build- 
ings occupied by the famous Brook 
Farm community of 1841-46. On the 
New Jersey shore, amid bleak sand 
hills, there is a monument to mark the 
spot where the ship Elizabeth was 
wrecked in 1850, homeward bound 
from Italy. In beautiful Mount Auburn 
Cemetery there may be found a little 
marble monument, erected three-score 
years ago, which has an inscription to 
the baby, Angelo Ossoli, sleeping be- 
neath it, and another to the memory of 
the parents, whom the cruel sea re- 
fused to give up when they, like the 
child, went down to death in the wreck 
of the Elizabeth. 

These monuments, with a few books 
.which are rarely taken from the library 
shelves, are the material evidences now 
in existence to remind the world to-day 
that Margaret Fuller once lived. Now 
that the centenary of her birth has 
come around, what is the estimate of 
that strange and tragic life, and of the 

influence, if any, which has survived it? 
Loved and mourned as few women 
have ever been, criticised and con- 
demned as few women have ever been, 
is oblivion closing over her, or is hers 
"one of the few, the immortal names, 
that were not born to die"? 

In a way the monuments which have 
been mentioned epitomize her career. 
At least, they are suggestive of the 
most notable periods of her life. There 
was her youth in Cambridge, a child- 
hood and girlhood from which the 
youth was stolen away while she was 
subjected to an intellectual forcing 
process which made her the most cul- 
tured woman of her generation. There 
was the period of transcendentalism, of 
which Brook Farm was an incidental 
outgrowth — a period in which Mar- 
garet Fuller was among the most in- 
cessantly and aggressively active lead- 
ers, teaching, lecturing and writing. 
There were her closing years in Europe, 
where she found in Italy both the love 
which glorified her life and the oppor- 
tunity on the battlefield and in the hos- 
pital for splendid service in behalf of 
suffering humanity. Then came the 
fateful voyage and the wreck, and the 
only one of her treasures to reach the 
shore was the dead body of her little 
son, whom her dear ones at home had 
never seen in life. 

There is so much of mystery in the 
tragic story of her career ; so much that 
is complex and contradictory in the 
pictures which are drawn of her char- 
acter; so much that is fascinating and 
bewildering in the glimpses which we 
have of her personality, that there is 
little danger that the world will forget 
Margaret Fuller. But the few among 
the living who knew her well — two of 
her leading biographers, Julia Ward 



Howe and Thomas Wentworth Hig- 
ginson, are among the number — can 
scarcely fail to realize that the enthu- 
siastic dreams of her ardent admirers 
and faithful followers regarding the 
permanent place she would occupy are 
falling short of fulfilment. 

It is so often that way in the case of 
those whose zeal, activity and individu- 
ality make a strong impress upon their 
own times. Margaret Fuller made her- 
self felt upon two continents. She min- 
gled with the great as an equal, and the 
wise gratefully acknowledged that they 
were enriched by her conversation. 
Some there were who scoffed and ridi- 
culed; some went even beyond this. 
Perhaps she was too far above them, 
or perhaps they had felt the sting of a 
well-directed shaft of satire. If she 
made an enemy here and there, she 
made for each enemy a score of loyal 
and devoted friends who found no 
words too strong in praising her. If 
the capacity for making friends be the 
test of success in life — and surely it is 
one of the tests — then Margaret Fuller, 
in spite of the bitter abuse of a few in- 
dividuals which followed her even be- 
yond the grave, won such a success as 
gives her immortality. The greatest 
souls of her time recognized in her a 
kindred spirit, and why should not pos- 
terity accept their verdict? 

As to the literary work of Margaret 
Fuller, it is small test of its value that 
hex books are now little read. She is 
in distinguished company in that re- 
spect. More important than a study of 
her style — which has the defects of that 
period — or of her themes — which she 
doubtless treated less effectively on 
paper than in conversation — is the 
memory of the fact that her influence 

was all-powerful in the literary phase 
of the transcendental movement, which 
aimed to instil more Americanism into 
American literature, and that in both 
this country and Europe her writings 
were highly esteemed by her contem- 
poraries of greatest culture. As a lit- 
erary critic she handled harshly the 
earlier works of Lowell and Longfel- 
low, but had these poets written noth- 
ing in later years the world would now 
agree with the reviews she penned. 

The women of America have spe- 
cial reasons to honor the memory of 
Margaret Fuller, for she was a pioneer 
who blazed the way for the progress of 
her sex. Her book, "Woman in the 
Nineteenth Century," was more than 
half a century in advance of its time. 
Her aggressive arguments in behalf of 
greater legal rights for women resulted 
in legislation whose fruit is enjoyed by 
every American woman of to-day. At 
a time when women of culture were 
relatively few, and when those few 
were without systematic intellectual 
stimulus, she inaugurated her famous 
series of "conversations" in Boston, 
whose influence is still felt wherever 
women's clubs are known. When no 
other American woman of her genera- 
tion knew what such work meant, she 
was binding the wounds and soothing 
the last moments of dying soldiers. 

Margaret Fuller — as she will always 
be more familiarly known than by the 
name of the young Italian marquis, 
Ossoli, whom she secretly married in 
Italy — did much, loved much and suf- 
fered much. She was a true daughter 
of genius, and as such she must be 
judged. The influences of her busy 
life radiated far, and she will not be 



For the Pilgrim Publicity Association 

THE splendid optimism that 
guided the gubernatorial pens 
in a recent literary symposium 
on the business outlook for the New 
England States in 1910 is well sup- 
ported by the facts. We find that the 
farmers are getting comparatively high 
prices for the fruits of their tillage, and 
that good roads are bringing the mar- 
kets nearer to the farms ; that the great 
mills and factories are busy, and that 
some of them, already the largest in the 
world, are about to be duplicated ; that 
the influx of summer visitors promises 
to be greater this year than ever before. 

Yes, New England is a busy place 
and there is none better to live in, and 
the leaders in almost every line of en- 
deavor are inclined to feel satisfied 
with the undoubted prosperity. But 
there is at least one line of activity the 
exponents of which will never be con- 
tent to accept things as they are. 

Behold the advertising man! He de- 
clares we have not begun to show the 
world — no, not even to show New Eng- 
land — what our resources are. And 
what does he propose? He would have 
all New England, as a community or as 
a group of communities, take a course 
of treatment in publicity. And if you 
ask him why he thinks this is neces- 
sary, he can give what, in his own mind 
at least, are good reasons. 

To begin with, he knows that east- 
erners are inclined to think that there 
is something in the soil and the air of 
the West that develops communica- 
tiveness, and that the dwellers in the 
former home of the Puritans have in- 
herited or absorbed from their sur- 
roundings a habit of reserve which 
amounts almost to taciturnity. 

But experience has shown him that 
some of the most earnest advocates 

of the glories of the West and South 
were born and raised to hardy man- 
hood in Maine, New Hampshire or 
Vermont, and that the reason they talk 
so freely and so forcibly of the great 
things in their adopted country is be- 
cause human nature tells them to talk, 
and because, having grown up with the 
country, having seen the manufactur- 
ing plants develop from an idea, hav- 
ing watched agricultural products and 
fruits matured by the aid of irrigation 
from tracts of desert, they know what 
they are talking about. 

It goes without saying that no man 
of sound judgment likes to relate gen- 
eralities. They carry no weight. But 
if one can give facts and figures, one 
can easily get an attentive audience. 
And just as soon as the people of New 
England learn the remarkable facts re- 
garding the beauty spots at their very 
doors, the marvelous agricultural possi- 
bilities of our neglected farm lands and 
the variety and character of the goods 
made in New England, they will talk 
about these things just as enthusiasti- 
cally as does the traveler from the 
West and South talk about such simi- 
lar glories as his home state may pos- 
sess ; and the changed conditions will 
usher in an important development of 
civic pride and the inevitably resultant 
commercial prosperity. 

The advertising man would tear from 
thousands of New England factories 
the all too familiar sign, "No admit- 
tance except on business," and would 
substitute one which would be more 
like the hearty catch phrase a mer- 
chant of Bangor makes use of in his 
advertisements, namely, "Come in and 
look around." 

How many manufacturing establish- 
ments does the reader know of in his 





own town to which visitors are wel- 
come? In the whole of Boston the 
writer knows only four — two publish- 
ing houses, a meat-packing house and a 
brewery — each of which, by the way, 
maintains an enthusiastic and expert 
advertising department. 

Just as Boston is a show place, so 
should many of its factories be show 
places. It is good advertising to have 
them so. Nevertheless, comparatively 
few manufacturers realize what a thirst 
for knowledge there is in the minds of 
the American people. 

When, seven years ago, there was a 
convention of teachers in Boston, and 
the advertising manager of a well- 
known shoe for women, without con- 
sulting the head of his concern, caused 
to be inserted in the Boston newspa- 
pers an invitation for the teachers to 
come down to Lynn the following day 
and see how shoes are made, the act 
was called audacious and unwise. The 
idea that sensible school teachers would 
spend half a summer day in visiting a 

shoe factory when they might be at- 
tending a matinee in an outdoor the- 
ater, canoeing on the Charles, enjoying 
a sail down the harbor or tracing the 
route of Paul Revere was preposterous. 
But scores of the teachers came to 
Lynn, spent an hour or more in the 
great factory, and departed for their 
homes to tell pupils and friends of the 
intricate processes and the infinite care 
used in the making of these famous 

The teachers who went to Lynn 
should have had an opportunity- to go 
into the jewelry factories at Attleboro 
and Providence, and they should have 
been invited to visit the mills of New 
Bedford to learn something about the 
manufacture of "poplins, fancy shirt- 
ings, soisettes, pongees, lawns, organ- 
dies and batistes." 

"It is pretty well understood by this 
time," says a writer in the Boston Globe, 
"that New Bedford leads all the cities 
of the United States in the manufac- 
ture of fine cotton goods, but the qual- 



ity and variety of these goods is hardly 
realized even in New Bedford." 

The residents of this section know 
as much about the fine cottons of New 
Bedford, however, as they do about the 
beautiful woolens and worsteds of Law- 
rence; the world-girdling cottons of 
Lowell and Fall River; the hundreds 
of thousands of dollars' worth of jew- 
elry manufactured in Attleboro and 
Providence ; the shoes on the manufac- 
ture of which Lynn and Brockton live, 
or the leathers which have made Pea- 
body a world leader in the trade. And 
this is in face of the fact that within a 
radius of fifty miles of the Boston State 
House there exists the best market in 
the world for these manufactures. 
''Trademark these goods," says the ad- 
vertising man, "and further dignify 
them with a 'Made in New England' 

The Pilgrim Publicity Association is 

urging all New England manufacturers 
who are proud of their goods to label 
them or the packages containing them, 
"New England made," the purpose be- 
ing to show the character and diver- 
sity of New England manufactures, not 
only to the people who live outside of 
this section, but to the New Engend- 
ers as well. 

And this is not a sentimental sug- 
gestion, but a matter of good business. 
"Made in Germany" has helped to en- 
able Germany to get control of the toy 
business of America, and "Made in 
Bridgeport" has undoubtedly aided in 
making Bridgeport the fastest growing 
Connecticut city. It's a timely proposi- 
tion, too. For there is a well-defined 
and growing sentiment in the West to 
decry the merits ofYankee-madegoods. 
Not only is this true in St. Louis, which 
unblushingly calls itself "The Shoe 
Capital of the Country," but in a great 


A bit OF Bar Harbor shore 



Winter recreations at a New England resort 

many other cities in the West and 
South. There the community spirit is 
so strong that, other considerations be- 
ing equal, the dealers favor the west- 
ern manufacturers in buying ; and since 
few New England manufacturers have 
realized the far-sightedness of making* 
a shoe which shall bear their own trade- 
mark, it has not been hard to build up 
an influence in favor of Western-made 

The advertising man wants the New 
England manufacturer to discontinue 
the practice of making cheap shoes at 
the demand of the jobber and retailer, 
to make only goods worthy of a trade- 
mark, and to own that trademark so 
that it may become, through advertis- 
ing, a New England asset. 

Mr. Henry G. Lord, publisher of the 
Textile World Record, in an article in the 
Boston Globe on April 3, 1910, said : 
"Fabrics made in our mills find their 
way to all parts of the world, and 
many New England trademarks are as 
well known in the far East as at home. 
Many of these trademarks and brands 
are in themselves worth thousands of 
dollars to corporations which control 

If the manufacturers will take the 

advice of the advertising man, it is 
reasonable to prophesy that five years 
from now, referring to the value of 
New England textile trademarks, Mr. 
Lord can accurately write "millions" 
instead of "thousands." 

The growth of the shoe industry in 
the West bears down but little on the 
Eastern makers who, through news- 
paper and magazine advertising, have 
established their trademarks as a guar- 
antee of excellence. The ones who are 
hurt are the manufacturers who have 
been content to make an untrade- 
marked shoe according to the specifi- 
cations of the jobber, or who have al- 
lowed the jobbers to own the trade- 
marks which the conscientious manu- 
facturer has made valuable. 

Though it would take a fortune to 
buy the rights to "W. L. Douglas," 
"Queen Quality," "Sorosis" or "Regal," 
as applied to shoes, the textile trade has 
no equally valuable names, and New 
England is the poorer to-day because 
of this fact. For a well-established 
trademark is a community asset. 

Nor need it be confined to manu- 
facturing. The agriculturist can build 
up valuable names of similar import 
to those trade names identified with 



the shoe and leather, textile, jewelry 
and other industries. For example, do 
we not ask for "Florida oranges," "Col- 
orado apples," "Rockyford melons," 
"Georgia peaches," "Vermont maple 
sugar," "Cotuit" or "Blue Point oys- 
ters"? Why, we not only ask for them, 
but we are willing to pay extravagant 
prices for these products, because 
through various methods of advertis- 
ing their names have become associ- 
ated with superior quality. 

Well, from Aroostook County, Me., 
come yearly ten to twenty million 
bushels of potatoes of a quality which 
only one other county in America can 
produce. But how many housewives 
ask the grocer for Aroostook potatoes? 
Not one in ten thousand. 

So the advertising man would have 
the Aroostook County potato-growers 
form some sort of an association and 
advertise the reasons why Aroostook 
County potatoes are the best in the 
world. An intelligent advertising cam- 
paign, such as the Pilgrim Publicity 
Association would gladly work out, 
would give the potato-grower a quick 
market near home and at prices that 

would prevent the sacrificing of first- 
quality tubers at the starch factories. 

As evidence that the writer is not in- 
dulging in an idle fancy, but is getting 
close to the real situation, he begs to 
offer an editorial which has appeared, 
since the foregoing was written, in the 
leading farm paper of New England. The 
quotation is from the New England 
Homestead for the week ending April 9, 

"The time is ripe for a big potato- 
growers' exchange in Maine. There po- 
tatoes predominate, and this is one of 
the first requisites of a successful co- 
operative association. It is commonly 
reported that Maine potatoes were 
given a black eye the past season, 
owing to a few being sent out at the 
start which were poor in quality. The 
trade generally believed that all Maine 
potatoes were bad and aimed to buy 
elsewhere. If either Aroostook grow- 
ers or those in Central Maine, center- 
ing around Waterville, could have had 
a strong association or exchange, the 
trade throughout the country would 
have been promptly advised as to the 




exact conditions and the product guar- 
anteed. It would have meant thou- 
sands of dollars to Maine growers. 
There is no good reason why a potato 
exchange in Maine could not be prac- 
tically as successful as the fruit-grow- 
ers' associations on the Pacific coast. 
There is no end of possibilities which 
such an organization could realize upon 
for farmers. Either Aroostook County 
or Central Maine, or both, would form 
a fine field for this co-operative ex- 

The plan proposed is applicable also 
to the marketing of first-quality blue- 

By combining and advertising, the 
farmers will be able to deal directly 
with the consumer and thus get a fair 
margin of profit, instead of allowing 
the middlemen to fatten at the expense 
of both the consumer and the producer. 

"The farmer," says Agricultural Sec- 
retary F. D. Coburn of Kansas, "is the 
only manufacturer on earth who is 
given no voice as to what shall be the 
price of his product. The man who 
makes pins, pianos, breakfast foods or 
battleships must be consulted as to the 
price for which his output shall be mar- 
keted and what he shall pay for his 
purchases ; but the farmer, who feeds 

View erom Saul's Hm,, Nantucket 

berries, cranberries, apples, strawber- 
ries, peaches and eggs ; and over the 
inevitable improvement of business 
methods all New England will have 
reason to rejoice. 

The same co-operation that has 
solved the problems incidental to the 
national sale of the oranges, lemons 
and grapefruit of California, the apples 
of Washington and Oregon and the 
grain of the Middle Western States is 
needed here in the East for the eco- 
nomical marketing of our agricultural 

all and clothes all, is so unheeded and 
mute at both ends of a transaction that 
in comparison the proverbial oyster 
would seem boisterously loquacious." 

If 350 men in the advertising busi- 
ness, that exemplification of sharp, al- 
most merciless competition,' can pull 
together as they undoubtedly do in the 
Pilgrim Publicity Association for the 
advancement of the business interests 
of all New England, any local group of 
producers whose interests are affiliated 
can organize for mutual help. With 
such an organization the advertising 



man will co-operate just as enthusiasti- 
cally as with any similar organization 
of manufacturers. For better condi- 
tions among the farmers will make a 
more prosperous New England. 

Now, having shown the manufac- 
turer and the farmer how to add mil- 
lions to their incomes, to whom shall 
the advertising man next proffer his 
gratuitous and unsolicited advice? 

He will turn to those who earn the 
lion's share of the $60,000,000 left in 
New England each year by the hun- 
dreds of thousands who visit its his- 
toric towns, its mountains, seashores, 
lakes, rivers, recreation parks, trout 
streams and game preserves to make 
living more joyous. 

If ever a business cried aloud for a 
pooling of interests, it is the summer- 
resort business in New England. 
Through intelligent combination, such 
as is typical of the hotel men of At- 
lantic City, among whom Atlantic City 
is first and the hotels a second consid- 
eration, the enormous amount of money 
spent in the New England States 
every year by visitors could easily be 

Advertising and the co-operative 
spirit have made Atlantic City one of 
the most famous and wealthy ocean re- 
sorts in the whole world, and have en- 
abled that far less attractive resort to 
draw hundreds of thousands of visitors 
away from beautiful Bar Harbor and 
picturesque Nantucket, to mention 
only two of the thousands of New Eng- 
land seashore resorts whom nature has 
endowed with her most magnificent 

Our summer hotel men say that what 
they need is a longer season. But they 
will never get it by sitting down and 
wishing for it. The way to add weeks 
and months to the season of production 
for this business is through a co-opera- 
tive advertising campaign, which shall 
tell the people what glorious months 
June and October are at the seashore 
and in the woods. There are half a 
dozen big hotels in Maine and New 

Hampshire, such as the Mansion House 
at South Poland, the Woodstock Inn 
at Woodstock, the Fitzwilliam Tavern 
at Fitzwilliam, that have their accom- 
modations engaged weeks in advance 
by guests who wish to spend the week 
of Washington's Birthday in rest and 
outdoor recreation. 

Last winter, for the first time, a 
Maine hotel proprietor did a little ad- 
vertising to tell the people of Boston 
something of the delights of the Maine 
woods and the snow-cushioned country 
roads at the time of the great Christ- 
mas storm. This big hotel, almost 
snow-bound and situated four miles 
from a railroad station, was filled with 
yule-tide visitors ; and many other coun- 
try hotels could have been filled at the 
same time if the respective managers 
had joined together to urge the tired 
city residents to take to the woods. 

Among the proprietors of the great 
hotels of New England are some of 
the most skilful business organizers in 
America. Is there not one who can 
find the time to formulate such a co- 
operative campaign as the writer has 
attempted merely to suggest? 

The activity of the fish interests of 
Gloucester in behalf of the summer ho- 
tels ; the encouraging of local farmers 
to take part in the work of the Com- 
mercial Club of Rockland, Mass. ; the 
great agricultural banquet of the Bos- 
ton Chamber of Commerce and the ag- 
ricultural rally in Springfield, Mass., 
under the auspices of the Springfield 
Board of Trade, are recent instances of 
the co-operative spirit now developing. 

Let each group organize for the ben- 
efit of its own members and endeavor 
to safeguard its own interests first. 
Then let it find, as it surely will, that 
success depends on the welfare of other 
groups representing various interests, 
and soon we shall see a master group 
of the leaders from the several circles 
working like one great mind to formu- 
late a campaign for the continuous ad- 
vancement of prosperity for all New 

Doctor Bestor's Atonement 


THE morning express was push- 
ing back the rails at the rate of 
sixty miles an hour when the ac- 
cident occurred. The up train had just 
taken the siding, the switch had not 
been properly turned, and a moment 
later the crash of the flying express 
produced a scene of destruction. Forty 
passengers were killed. Sixty more 
were bruised and broken — some be- 
yond hope of recovery, some only 
slightly. As soon as the wreckage 
could be cleared away the wounded 
were placed on such improvised 
stretchers as could be quickly made; 
and within two hours the hospital car 
sent up from Philadelphia was hasten- 
ing them to the hospitals in that city. 

The wounded were a motley group — 
some well dressed, intelligent; others 
shabbily clothed and illiterate. Sev- 
eral times during the next few days 
coffins were carried out from the hos- 
pital doors. Most of the wounded had 
relatives who came to see them, and 
most of the dead were taken away by 
their families. A few were unknown. 

In three weeks nearly all had gone 
out again — some to their graves, some 
to a maimed existence, some to health 
and work. Only two remained, both of 
whom were most interesting cases to 
the hospital authorities. One, a sturdy 
Irishman, had been brought in, clothed 
in workingman's garments. His face 
was seamed with the struggle of life. 
It was a hard face, with lines of dis- 
honor as well as of hardship. A savage 
knife had been found in his waistcoat. 
His delirious ramblings were mingled 
with oaths and vile slang. His head 
had met some terrible blow in the 
wreck which had injured his brain. The 
doctor thought at first that he could 
not live more than a few days. Now, 


he believed, he would live a hopeless 

The other patient was, from all ap- 
pearances, a gentleman of culture. His 
face was clear-cut and finely chiseled. 
He was quiet mostly, through suffer- 
ing, but when he spoke it was in the 
most perfect and polished English. 
Pie had received internal injuries which 
made his recovery extremely doubtful; 
still he lingered. Now and then his 
eyes rested upon the face of the other 
patient as if in study. No relatives had 
been located for either of the men. The 
Irishman had nothing about him from 
which even his name could be learned, 
and he had been too delirious to tell it 
ever since he came to the hospital. In 
the pocket of the other man was found 
a purse containing this card: "My 
name is Richard Farmington. If I die, 
you will find in this purse enough 
money to bury me. I have no rela- 

Now, Dr. Bestor conceived the idea 
(in case Mr. Farmington should die, 
which seemed almost certain to occur) 
of removing his brain immediately to 
the brain cavity of the Irishman. This 
would give the Irishman not only a 
sound brain, but a brain greatly su- 
perior in intellect to the one he lost. 

Such an operation as this would re- 
quire the utmost quickness; for the 
brain, according to the. proofs at the 
Rockefeller Institute, cannot be made 
to live more than thirty minutes after 
the flight of the spirit. All prepara- 
tions were therefore made. Every tool 
and bandage needed was placed in a 
case and brought into the ward. There 
would be no time to move the patients 
to another room. Two operating tables 
were placed just outside the door. 

Two days before Mr. Farmington's 



death he was most closely watched. 
Dr. Bestor and his four assistants did 
not undress during that time, but slept 
in a small adjoining room, ready to be 
called in an instant. About nine o'clock 
on the evening of the second day of 
watching, one of the attendant nurses 
called Dr. Bestor and his assistants. 
They came at once to Mr. Farmington's 
bedside. His breath came weakly, at 
long intervals. The whiteness of death 
had settled on his face. In the adjoin- 
ing bed lay the Irishman, asleep. There 
was plainly no time to be spared. Two 
of the assistants began to administer 
the anaesthetic to the Irishman, and 
just as he was under its influence Mr. 
Farmington's last breath stopped short. 
Dr. Bestor, with his hands on his pulse, 
pronounced him dead. 

Quickly and silently the two tables 
were brought in ; the two men were 
lifted onto them ; the case of tools and 
bandages was opened, and Dr. Bestor 
and his first assistant were swiftly 
wielding their small bone saws on the 
skulls of the two men. At the end of 
fifteen minutes the brain of Mr. Farm- 
ington was safely tucked into the cra- 
nium of the Irishman and the "medulla 
oblongata" joined, as well the nerves 
of the special senses. The blood ves- 
sels supplying the brain were joined, 
and the feeble heart, controlled only 
by reflex centers and strengthened by 
stimulants injected into the veins, be- 
gan to pump blood into the new brain. 
The bony covering was then placed 
over and the skin stitched carefully 
around the crown. 

For several days the Irishman lay 
unconscious, but the heart beat 
stronger and surer, the breath came 
more regularly, and there were strange, 
aimless movements of the limbs. Evi- 
dently the new brain had not grown 
into connection with the nervous sys- 
tem enough to control motion or to 
manifest itself through the special 
senses. A strong light brought to the 
man's face made no impression on the 
half-open eyes. The optic nerves had 
not made good their connection. At 
the end of a week the man began to 
reach for things in an uncertain way, 

as a baby begins to reach. He turned 
his eyes a little now and then, as if he 
saw something dimly. At an unusual 
noise lie moved slightly, as if the or- 
gans of hearing were beginning to be 
of use. At the end of another week he 
could both see and hear and had taken 
some food. He could speak also, but 
not distinctly. He sat up in bed and 
seemed interested in what was going 
on around him. A week later he could 
talk very well and his speech was an 
interesting study. The thoughts were 
evidently those of the late Mr. Farm- 
ington — cultured, definite, refined ; but 
the expression was that of the Irish la- 
borer — careless, guttural, harsh. A 
strange, pained, surprised look passed 
over his face at the sound of his own 
voice. Sometimes his eyes would light 
up with a gleam of intelligent interest, 
but when he spoke he felt humiliated 
and ashamed. What had become of 
the gentle, well-modulated voice and 
perfectly clear and assured enuncia- 

A few days later he asked for a mir- 
ror. When he looked into it an expres- 
sion of mingled fear and loathing came 
over his face. 

"What is the matter, Mr. Farming- 
ton?" asked the nurse (for it had been 
agreed to try calling him by that 

"Only a sick man's fancy, I suppose," 
he said, wearily. "I fancied I saw the 
face of a man whom I had some cause 
to fear on the train the day of the 
wreck. Only a sick man's fancy," he 
repeated, as if trying to assure himself. 

"Tell me about the man you feared," 
said the nurse. "Many of the injured 
were brought here to the hospital ; per- 
haps he may have been among them; 
perhaps he is dead." 

The man seemed trying to think: 
"He was an Irishman, I think — rough 
— a miner — partly drunk — I thought he 
was watching me — I caught the gleam 
of a weapon under his coat — I had 
spoken on the strike condition at Buf- 
falo the day before — I think he must 
have been a striker — probably an an- 
archist — Yes !" and a new light of mem- 
ory stole over his face, "he did come to 



this hospital; he had the bed next to 
mine !" 

He clasped his hands over his eyes 
and knit his brow as if in deep mental 
struggle. He raised his head with a 
bewildered look. 

''There seems a gap in my memory," 
he said. "I believe I must have been 
unconscious for a time." 

"Yes, you were," said the nurse; 
"and during that time the Irishman 

"I remember more distinctly now," 
he went on. "I thought I was dying. 
There was the gentle drifting away of 
all sensation. There was the loss of all 
sense of time and place and existence. 
Then, gradually, an increasing fulness 
of consciousness, an exuberant buoy- 
ancy of spirit, a joy I had never known 
before of soul expansion. Thereseemed 
no limit to my joy, no limit to the pos- 
sibilities of my soul. Thoughts so large 
and splendid that now I can only dimly 
remember theirsplendor,swept through 
my soul, as the wind plays through an 
Aeolian harp, and wrought the di- 
vinest melodies in me." 

The nurse forgot the stammering 
words and thought only of the beauty 
of the man's soul. Dr. Bestor, coming 
in just then, caught the last words. 

"What do you remember of your re- 
turn to consciousness?" he asked, com- 
ing to the bedside. 

"It was like being born again, only 
the consciousness came more rapidly. 
What the child learns in all the years 
to manhood came to me, without learn- 
ing, during the time I was returning 
to consciousness. How long was it, 

"Three weeks." 

That night Dr. Bestor could not 
sleep for thinking of his patient. The 
man's talk of death had given him a 
strange unrest. Was it Richard Farm- 
ington or the Irishman who still lived? 
Some one had died. Richard Farming- 
ton's body had been buried in the cem- 
etery. His soul had entered the realms 
of rest — but had it returned to inhabit 
the unsightly Irish body? What right 
had he, Dr. Bestor, to call a soul back 
from its God to another tenement of 

clay? Where was the Irishman's soul? 
His body was still animated. What 
right had Dr. Bestor to cast any soul, 
however worthless, out of its tenement 
of clay? He had thought to do the 
Irishman a kindness by giving him a 
better brain than he had ever had be- 
fore. Was it only the worthless body 
he had benefited? Had his zeal for sci- 
entific investigation and experiment led 
him unwittingly to experiment with 

Already the news of his wonderful 
experiment had spread through the sci- 
entific world. He had spoken of it him- 
self in enthusiastic terms to several 
journalists. His name was flashed from 
coast to coast as the leading scientist — 
the master physician of his day. Now, 
in his quiet chamber, the consciousness 
of the awful thing he had done came 
over him like an Egyptian darkness — 
an oppressive weight of gloom — a hor- 
ror of having walked into the sacred 
shrines of creation where souls are 
made, and of having thereby forfeited 
his right to his own soul. 

After this the doctor became very si- 
lent about his late success. When ques- 
tioned about it he seemed only half- 
interested. The journalists were disap- 
pointed in not being able to get any- 
thing definite for the magazines. Little 
did they guess the torture to which 
they were subjecting the physician. 
The other physicians of the hospital 
tried to draw him out. He seemed so 
silent and sad that they thought he 
must be in trouble. They tried to help 
him forget it, or, at least, get above it, 
by renewing his interest in scientific 
research. They spoke in glowing terms 
of the remarkable case that was now 
the talk of the people. They laughingly 
jested about the "Irish Mr. Farming- 
ton." But each word probed deeper 
into the writhing conscience of the 

Dr. Bestor now spent as much time 
as he could spare from other duties at 
the bedside of his patient. He told the 
nurse he wished to study the case. He 
vaguely felt that perhaps he might 
learn something from the sick man's 
words that would absolve him. He 



V ' -- - • ■ 

Drawn by L. T. Hammond 


hoped to find, behind and within, the 
real personality of the Irishman clothed 
in the larger and better gifts of Rich- 
ard Farmington. He tried to gain the 
man's confidence — to get him to talk 
of his inner life — and* in this he was 
successful ; and it became more and 
more evident to Dr. Bestor that Rich- 
ard Farmington was not wandering the 
Elysian fields, but was indeed dwelling 
in and governing the body of the Irish- 

man. Be it understood, then, that the 
Irishman, and not Richard Farmington, 
is dead. Henceforth we shall speak of 
the living man, soul and body, as Rich- 
ard Farmington. 

As the patient grew more convales- 
cent and walked about his ward, Dr. 
Bestor still continued to spend much 
time with him. He was filled with a 
strong desire to atone in some way for 
what he had done. To the Irishman 



he could never atone. He was irrevo- 
cably lost. But for Mr. Farmington 
the doctor felt that he would give his 
life if he might only undo that brilliant, 
awful deed. 

There was, indeed, much of common 
interest between the two men. They 
were congenial natures ; and this con- 
geniality, fostered by the grateful at- 
titude of Mr. Farmington for his re- 
covery and the deep interest of Dr. 
Bestor, developed into a confidential 
comradeship. When Mr. Farmington 
was able to go out, Dr. Bestor took 
him to his own rooms until he should 
grow stronger. They lunched together, 
walked together, and, in fact, spent all 
of the doctor's unoccupied time in each 
other's company. 

The present Mr. Farmington wore 
the same suit of clothes in which the 
late Mr. Farmington had been brought 
to the hospital. Even the purse con- 
taining its card of instructions was the 
same, and the money was still there. 
Dr. Bestor himself had defrayed the fu- 
neral expenses. 

Richard Farmington's humiliation in 
regard to his voice and his appearance 
continued, and rather increased than 
subsided. He became so sensitive about 
it that he would scarcely use a mirror 
even to tie his cravat. Sometimes he 
began a sentence and then stopped it 
short, grieved and shocked at his own 
Irish brogue. Dr. Bestor saw all this 
and understood it. What could he do 
to help this unfortunate man out of the 
difficulties he had brought upon him? 

At first, Mr. Farmington said noth- 
ing of his feeling on the subject; but 
one day, when they were talking of his 
recovery, he said : 

"Doctor, how do you account for the 
change in my appearance since my in- 
jury? My face in the mirror bears no 
resemblance to the one I am accus- 
tomed to see there. My voice, too, is 
changed, and my pronunciation. I used 
to speak fair English ; now I speak an 
inferior Irish. How can I take up my 
work again with a voice like this? My 
clothes do not fit me. I am two inches 
shorter than I used to be; I measured 
myself yesterday when you were at the 

hospital. My hands are not the same, 
either. The hands I had were well 
shaped and unscarred. These look like 
day laborer's hands — short, stubby, cal- 
lous. Even the color of my eyes is 
changed. Once they were brown ; now 
they are a meaningless gray. My hair 
was black and fine and wavy; this is 
coarse and light. I find, too, that I have 
not the same muscular control I had 
before the injury. I was interested in 
physical culture and could do some fancy 
stunts in the gymnasium. Yesterday 
I could not do the simplest movements 
creditably. Do you know, doctor," he 
said, "I feel as if I had gotten into some 
other man's body and don't know just 
how to run the machinery. I never 
used to carry my hands' in my pocket; 
now I can scarcely keep them out. I 
never used to drag my feet when I 
walked ; now I can scarcely make them 
clear the ground." 

All this time the doctor listened, 
stunned and disheartened. He had 
watched Richard Farmington's uneasi- 
ness with increasing solicitude; but he 
had not looked for so plain a state- 
ment of the case from the one man who 
was supposed to know nothing of it. 
Should he confess the truth, or should 
he try to help the man over his diffi- 
culties without telling him? As for 
himself, he felt that he could endure 
any reproach — even the lasting hatred 
of the man he longed to serve — if that 
would in any way atone for what he 
had done. He must, at any rate, gain 
a little time to think it over. 

"Illness has many strange ways of 
treating us," said Dr. Bestor, "and 
never leaves us the same as it found 
us. Sometimes the change is so slight 
as to be scarcely noticed; sometimes 
marked, as in your case; sometimes 
only temporary; sometimes permanent. 
There are always, sleeping within us, 
many inherited traits that never come 
to the front because they are over- 
come and kept in the background by 
the more dominant traits. Now, if ill- 
ness should in some way destroy the 
dominant traits, the underlying quali- 
ties would manifest themselves. You 
are, perhaps, descended from an Irish 



ancestor whose traits have been carried 
down the line underneath, but never 

Mr. Farmington was not entirely sat- 
isfied, but had no doubt that the 
doctor had given him the best ex- 
planation he knew. 

That evening Dr. Bestor had some 
important work at the hospital. He 
did not ask Richard Farmington to go 
with him, lest the latter should learn 
the truth about himself. Mr. Farm- 
ington, on the other hand, was glad 
that the doctor did not ask him to go, 
for he shrank from meeting people. He 
felt conscious of his face and hands 
and voice. He felt awkward in this 
new, insubordinate bodv. 

For a while he lost himself in Dr. 
Bestor's library. There he found the 
new book on sociology by Professor 
Brown. He had been reading that book 
on the train the day of the accident. 
Now he settled down to pick up the 
dropped thread and was soon lost in 
his favorite subject. The clock on the 
mantel struck ten before he again 
thought of his surroundings. He started 
up and wondered why the doctor had 
not returned, but the book was so in- 
teresting that he read on to the end of 
the chapter. Then, leaning back in his 
chair, he let his thoughts ramble on 
from the theme in the book to the 
theme of his work and his life — not his 
present life (he had forgotten that), but 
the life before the wreck. He thought 
of the lecture at Buffalo on the strike 
problem; of his coming to Buffalo the 
day before in company with the mayor 
of that city, whom he had met in Chi- 
cago, and who had invited him to come 
and deliver his lecture. Then, run- 
ning backward in his mind, he thought 
of his work as professor of sociology 
and political economy at the Eeland 
Stanford University; of his previous 
work there; then of the terrible catas- 
trophe at San Francisco, when the 
earthquake had come with its relent- 
less hand and wrenched away all that 
he held most dear— his beautiful wife, 
his baby, his parents — after which he 
had taken up his professorship at Ice- 
land Stanford. He remembered the 

wild grief of those first days after the 
earthquake, then the despondency, and 
after that the new purpose that had 
come to him, born of the indomitable 
courage and earnest make-up of the 
man, to yet take up his life and make 
it grand. 

Again the clock on the mantel struck. 
Again Richard Farmington came to 
himself, wondered at the doctor's late 
absence, and got up to stroll about the 
room. He felt thirsty and went to the 
next room for a drink — the water was 
insipid, tasteless. He had a craving he 
had never felt before for something 
stronger. Richard Farmington had 
been a temperate man. He had tasted 
whiskey only once, in case of severe 
illness, and yet he felt now that his 
craving was for that. He took an- 
other drink of water. It was more in- 
sipid than ever. His craving became 
so strong that it was only by the force 
of his masterly will that he could keep 
himself from searching in the doctor's 
cabinet for .something alcoholic. He 
determinedly sat down to his reading 
again. It had lost all interest. He 
tried to think of his beautiful, young 
wife and the laughing, bright-eyed 
baby, but the insatiate thirst dragged 
him away from the fair vision. He 
thought of his work, of the spotless 
honor of his life, and still that craving 
gripped him with even crueller tension 
and shook him in its frenzy till he. al- 
most despaired. Again he got the up- 
per hand. Again he stood in the in- 
vincible power of a clean and upright 
man. Again he grappled with the de- 
mon — grappled till the drops stood out 
on his forehead, and his hands were 
clenched till the nails sank into the 
flesh, and his eyes were wild with the 
fury of the strife. At this moment Dr. 
Bestor came in. 

A new pang of apprehension and fear 
seized the doctor as he looked upon the 
frenzied face of his friend and patient. 
He feared that the strangeness of Mr. 
Farmington's position had begun to 
prey upon his mind, and that the agon- 
ized expression on his face was one 
of insane raving. Walking over to 
Richard Farmington, the doctor laid 



his hand upon his shoulder and said 
kindly: "My friend, you seem to be in 

Thereupon Richard Farmington, his 
nerves wrung by the strain of the strug- 
gle with the demon of drink, overcome 
with mortification and self-disappoint- 
ment, tortured with fear of the terrible 
power that had so nearly overwhelmed 
him, buried his face in his hands and 
burst into tears. It was some time be- 
fore he became calm enough to reply 
to the doctor. At last, however, he got 
control of himself. 

"Oh, doctor !" he said ; "you cannot 
imagine the extent to which my illness 
has changed me." The doctor writhed. 
"The things I prized most in my life, 
outside soul growth, have slipped away 
from me. The culture and refinement 
of manner, the scrupulous temperance 
of my habits, which I regarded supple- 
mentary to the best soul growth — 
where are they now? Oh, doctor! can 
you not do something to help me in this 
fight? I have had my first struggle 
with a thirst for alcohol, and I had 
rather die than go through it again !" 

Dr. Bestor had no reply. What hu- 
man word of comfort or assurance could 
reach so deep a trouble? He sat down 
and the two remained silent for a long 
time. He had not foreseen this. In his 
office at the hospital he had thought 
the matter over carefully after his work 
was done. He thought that he had 
looked at it from every point of view, 
and he had decided that Richard Farm- 
ington must know the truth. He had 
been willing to face the reproach, the 
hatred, perhaps the anger and revenge 
of the man he had wronged. He felt 
that he deserved any reward Mr. Farm- 
ington might be pleased to measure 
out to him. The doctor reasoned that 
in his present condition Richard Farm- 
ington must necessarily think much 
about the change which had taken 
place, and that in all probability such 
continued thinking would result in in- 
sanity. On the other hand, he felt that 
if Mr. Farmington knew the truth he 
could better adjust himself to the 
change and overcome the difficulties 
of his position, and in time so subor- 

dinate and permeate the new body by 
the force of his splendid personality 
that he might yet be a powerful influ- 
ence for good. The doctor knew, too, 
that the papers were still publishing the 
successful experiment, and that in 
all probability Mr. Farmington would 
learn the truth sooner or later, and per- 
haps in a more distorted fashion than 
if he should receive it from the doctor. 
All these conclusions Dr. Bestor had 
reached in his office that evening, and 
had come home with the determination 
to explain the whole case to his pa- 
tient. Now the enormity of his deed 
came over him with increased force in 
the light of the new struggle, and he 
faltered. At any rate, he argued, Mr. 
Farmington was in no condition to 
hear. his explanation to-night; he would 
leave it till morning. 

The struggle with the drink fiend 
was over for the time, and Richard 
Farmington, having regained his com- 
posure and self-possession, bade the 
doctor "good-night" and went to bed. 
But the struggle was not yet over for 
the doctor. He sat staring helplessly 
before him for a long time after Rich- 
ard Farmington had left him, trying to 
collect his thoughts, trying to get some 
illuminating idea that would solve the 
problem. At first he was overwhelmed 
with the weight of his fateful deed. All 
its terrible consequences loomed up be- 
fore him: A human soul robbed of the 
eternal rest into which it had already 
entered, and not only that, but plunged 
back into a tenfold harder existence 
than it had known before — a soul that 
had conquered the temptations and ills 
of one lifetime; that had marched vic- 
torious through discouragement and 
pain; that had achieved the purpose of 
its existence in attaining the God-like 
in itself and performing the God-like 
in its service to others ; such a soul 
having reached the fulness of its de- 
velopment at the gates of death, and 
having swept majestically into the in- 
finite consciousness of eternal truth, 
had been rudely beckoned back by pro- 
fane hands, had been chained to an- 
other earthly existence, shorn of its 
beatific visions, cramped, crumpled, 



desecrated, in an unworthy fleshly 
house; and he, Dr. Bestor, had been the 
agent of all this ! What sacrifice was 
too great to make for the man he had so 
deeply wronged ? And yet, what could 
he do? 

Then the illuminating idea came, 
with a bewildering splendor that al- 
most overwhelmed the doctor, to de- 
vote the rest of his life to the service 
of this man ; to attend him, to help him 
overcome the difficulties, to shield him 
against the temptations to which he 
would be most susceptible, until his 
spirit should triumph over all and make 
him once more a strong, sure man. 

When this thought first came to Dr. 
Bestor his heart leaped with a great 
throb of relief and joy that he could do 
something, and in his first unselfish en- 
thusiasm he hurried gladly on from 
plan to plan of how he and Mr. Farm- 
ington would leave Philadelphia ; would 
travel for a while to take the unfortu- 
nate man's thoughts from himself ; how 
the doctor would be always near to 
help in difficult times ; how they would 
together take up some work congenial 
to both, until at last God would call 
Richard Farmington to the rest he had 
twice earned; and the doctor did not 
doubt he would be doubly crowned, and 
hoped that he himself might by such a 
life blot out the sin of that one fatal 

But Dr. Bestor, as is often the case 
with enthusiastic natures, was liable to 
reverses of enthusiasm. If he acted at 
once on any impulse, the tidal wave of 
the impulse would carry him through; 
but if he had time to consider, there 
was likely to be an ebb tide, in which 
the rocks and difficulties of any under- 
taking were laid bare. In the case of 
the operation the ebb tide had not set 
in until it was too late to change his 
course, and he was now left to beat his 
way among the rocks. In his present 
plans for himself and Mr. Farmington, 
however, the ebb tide set in quickly, 
and drew back the full volume of the 
wave with sickening suction. 

He thought of his place in the medi- 
cal world ; of the remarkable success of 
his experiments at the Rockefeller In- 

stitute; of the invaluable service he 
was rendering in Philadelphia. Was it 
right, he questioned, to throw away 
those talents with which God had espe- 
cially endowed him? Would he be 
Counted guiltless if he withheld from a 
suffering world the gifts that he had 
received? Had not his purpose been 
pure and unselfish in performing the 
operation that had cost him so much 
woe? Was he required to suffer self- 
inflicted punishment for a deed which 
he had done in an honest and earnest 
effort to uplift and benefit and save a 
degraded son of Adam? Mr. Farming- 
ton had a strong, upright and coura- 
geous personality that no doubt would 
triumph over all the difficulties of his 
situation. What assurance had the 
doctor, if he should sincerely devote 
his life to the help of this man, that he 
would not make another fatal error and 
plunge Richard Farmington and him- 
self yet deeper into the maze? 

So inviting did this line of thought 
become that the doctor began to dream 
again the dream of his success. The 
lure of fame, the glory and splendor of 
achievement in the work he loved, drew 
him on. He heard again the congratu- 
latory words of his comrades — the un- 
qualified admiration and wonder of the 
public. For the moment he forgot 
Richard Farmington entirely. Suddenly 
the Irish face appeared to his fancy. 
The splendid structure of his dream 
crumbled before that apparition. What 
would it profit him to gain the utmost 
in his profession if each success should 
bring him such woe as had followed his 
last most brilliant achievement? 

Dr. Bestor now subjected himself to 
a most severe self-examination — an ex- 
amination of motives running back to 
his college days. What had induced 
him to study medicine? Was it a holy 
desire to help humanity, or was it the 
gratification of a selfish delight in scien- 
tific research? What had led him on 
from success to success but the siren 
song of Fame? What was the inmost 
motive of his heart in performing the 
fateful operation? Did he not foresee 
the commendation of all the medical 
profession — the astonishment and de- 



light of all intelligent people? Honestly 
and humbly he made answer to his 
questioning soul that all his motives 
had been selfish, Again the vision of 
lifelong devoted service to Richard 
Farmington came before him, and his 
suffering soul eagerly seized the oppor- 
tunity for atonement. 

.He kept his eyes steadfastly on that 
purpose. Again and again, during the 
silent hours of that sleepless night, the 
strong passion for his profession swept 
over him. Again and again the power 
of his firm resolve carried him through 
victorious. He closed his ears to the 
applauding voices of the multitude, 
when those voices were to him the mel- 
ody of time. He closed his eyes to the 
sight of his beloved instruments — the 
familiar scenes of the laboratory and 
the ward, when those scenes were to 
him as the faces of friends most dear. 
He withdrew his hands from the relief 
of suffering and skilful manipulation 
of each shining instrument, when such 
activities were to him as the rich, red 
blood in his arteries. And what was 
left? — for his ears, silence! for his eyes, 
darkness ! for his hands, idleness ! Like 
Browning's "Saul," he stood in that 
blank space between hopeand despair — 

"Death was gone — life not come." 

Having once resolved, however, he 
would not turn back ; and, gradually, as 
he held his purpose close, it began to 
glow and warm again with the beauti- 
ful colors it had worn when first it 
came to him, and morning found the 
doctor's struggle over and the victory 

When Richard Farmington appeared 
in the morning his face still bore traces 
of the severe test he had undergone the 
night before. There was an almost im- 
perceptible and indefinable softening 
of the hard lines of the Irish face — a 
chastened expression that touched a 
sympathetic chord in Dr. Bestor's 
heart and gave him courage for his 

He began his explanation at once, 
knowing it unsafe to let his generous 
impulse subside. Carefully and logi- 

cally he brought out the details, con- 
cealing nothing of his own motives and 
responsibility except the last resolve 
concerning the future. As he talked he 
watched attentively the changes in 
Richard Farmington's face. First, there 
was a look of interest as the doctor told 
of the wreck and the two cases at the 
hospital. Then an expression of be- 
wilderment as he began to talk of the 
nature of the two cases and the pro- 
posed operation. As the narrative pro- 
gressed the expression darkened, the 
eyes gave forth a menacing, lurid glow ; 
the whole face began to reinforce the 
expression of brute ferocity and demon- 
like hatred. Still the doctor went 
bravely on, concluding with these 
words : 

"And now, Richard Farmington, you 
have my story. A sad one it is for me 
and a grievous one for you. I do not 
ask your mercy or consideration. I own 
nothing — not even my life — that I 
would not give to undo that one half- 
hour's work. I only pray you will let 
me do what little I can to help you 
overcome the obstacles I have put in 
your way. May God forgive me and 
help us both !" 

Richard Farmington uttered an an- 
gry Irish oath ; the Irish fist tightened ; 
the Irish eyes darted dangerous fire; 
and the hand, by a quick movement, 
sought the waistcoat pocket where the 
Irishman's knife had been. 

The doctor believed the angry man 
would spring upon him in a moment. 
But- — where was the knife? The hand 
found it not — the face was bewildered 
— and instantly Richard Farmington 
covered his face with his hands in an 
agony of realization and mortification. 
He remained in this position a long 
while, apparently thinking. What was 
going on in the mind of this strong, 
tried man? How could Dr. Bestor help 
him in his deep inner struggles against 
the environment of his own unruly 
body ? 

The reflex centers controling many 
motions and appetites had acquired 
their power from the will or indul- 
gence of the Irishman, and the muscu- 
lar contractions resulting from them 



reacted upon the brain of Richard 
Farmington. Thus, when the ear re- 
ceived Dr. Bestor's words and conveyed 
them to the brain, the brain admitted, 
"I am wronged." Through the mys- 
terious action of the nervous system the 
reflex centers took up the suggestion 
and gave the muscles their usual style 
of order in case of wrong, so the facial 
muscles contracted and the hand flew 
for the avenging weapon. These physi- 
cal manifestations of rage, in turn, 
working upon the brain, produced there 
a condition of actual, intense anger — 
an emotion the intensity of which Rich- 
ard Farmington had never experienced 
before in his life, and in his later sub- 
dued and temperate years had scarcely 
known at all. What must have been 
his dismay, then, to find this ugly 
hatred in a heart once made fit to enter 
the kingdom of rest? 

"Forgive me, doctor !" at last came 
the broken voice of Richard Farming- 
ton. "I never before experienced such 
an outburst of unreasoning rage. I beg 
you will not think this is a portrayal of 
my real feeling toward you. Can I so 
soon forget the sacrifice and the devo- 
tion you have shown me during my 
convalescence and since my recovery? 
As for the operation, you did what any 
physician with your skill would have 
done. You wrong yourself in believing 
your motives selfish. This idea is the 
result of your over-wrought conscience 
and your intense and morbid introspec- 
tion. You must not allow one deed 
which you consider a mistake to cast 
a shadow over all your later efforts. No 
truly great benefit is gained for the race 
without some corresponding cost. God 
only knows whether that deed was 
really a mistake. It has, of course, cost 
me a few years of the eternal fulness 
of life, according to our human reckon- 
ing; but when I have again passed from 
the limited into the infinite, where 'a 
thousand years are but as yesterday 
when it is past and as a watch in the 
night,' what will it matter? And per- 
haps out of this achievement of yours 
there may develop to the race untold 
good in years to come." 

The word "achievement" fell on the 

doctor's ears like the sweet melody of 
a half-forgotten song — but only for an 
instant. He knew that this brave, true 
soul before him, though breathing out 
the very breath of the celestial realms 
in which it had spent so short a time, 
yet would encounter many difficulties 
in which it would need help before it 
could again pass from "the limited into 
the infinite." Dr. Bestor had seen his 
duty ; he would follow it. 

In devoting himself, however, to the 
service of Richard Farmington it was 
necessary that he do it without allow- 
ing his purpose to be known, for he was 
certain that Richard Farmington would 
never listen to an offer of any sacrifice 
on his account. A few days later, when 
Mr. Farmington mentioned the neces- 
sity of going back to San Francisco to 
look after some business affairs, the 
doctor said he was planning a visit to 
his married sister, who lived there, and 
thought he could arrange to leave then 
as well as any time, and would accom- 
pany Mr. Farmington if the latter did 
not object. And so it was arranged 
that they should go the next week. 

During the days which followed, the 
doctor quietly arrange his business so 
that he could be away for an indefinite 
period. He would leave his resigna- 
tion at the hospital till the last day, 
only asking now for leave of absence ; 
then he would go away before the sur- 
prise became general. But there was 
another matter which he need not leave 
till the last day ; though he did leave it 
two or three days to gain courage and 
calm for what he feared would be a 
trying interview. 

.For a year now he had been a friend 
and constant attendant of Miss Bernice 
Parke, daughter of Gordon Parke, one 
of the leading attorneys of the city. 
Miss Parke was a charming society girl 
of twenty-five; wealthy, beautiful and 
much courted. Of all her suitors, Dr. 
Bestor had gained most favor, and his 
late achievements in his profession had 
placed him in a position, as he believed, 
to win her hand. Her friends and fam- 
ily looked upon him with approval, and 
all seemed promising for the famous 
surgeon on the eve of the operation 



upon Richard Farmington. Since that 
time, however, though he had seen her 
several times, they had talked upon top- 
ics of general interest only. The doctor 
wished to gather himself together a 
little before the momentous word. Now 
he knew that he must go to her, tell her 
of his decision to give up his profes- 
sion, try to make her understand the 
call his soul had heard, and then — 
what? Well, he would see. 

As he walked up the three squares 
that lay between his residence and hers, 
on the fourth evening before his de- 
parture for San Francisco, his thoughts 
were not of Richard Farmington, who 
had been so constantly in his mind for 
the last six weeks ; nor of his beloved 
profession, the giving up of which had 
cost him such a struggle; for Philip 
Bestor — the man — though the victim of 
gnawing remorse for one sad, hospital 
deed, and a devout worshipper at the 
shrine of science, was first of all a lover. 
Though our view of him in the intense 
trial of the past six weeks has not 
shown this, yet underneath the stormy 
surface there lay a quiet depth of emo- 
tion and tenderness, lost sight of, it 
may be, even by himself for brief pe- 
riods during the storm, yet always 
there — strong, true and powerful. This 
was not merely an innate attitude of ab- 
stract devotion — it was a definite, con- 
crete, soul-sweeping devotion for one 
fair woman, Bernice Parke. 

And so, as he walked the three 
squares between his home and hers, his 
thoughts were all of her. How they 
ran before him like eager children to 
greet her before his orderly feet could 
go half-way! How they laughed and 
danced and clapped their hands about 
him — these lover thoughts of his — and 
merrily chattered of her, always of her ! 

"She is beautiful ! She is beautiful 1" 
they said again and again. 

"Her eyes are deep and blue! — deep 
and blue — deep and blue!" sang all the 
happy elfish things. 

"And she is kind and good I" they 
came and whispered in his ears. 

And so this troubled man forgot his 
trouble and walked in paradise a little 

Bernice met him with her usual 
genial smile, and led the way into the 
drawing-room. The jolly thoughts 
danced gleefuly about in riotous de- 
light, but soon the beautiful queen 
thought of love, sitting upon her throne 
in Philip Bestor's heart, looked down 
upon her reveling little subjects who 
paid homage to their queen and were 
silent. And while Dr. Bestor sat .calmly 
exchanging commonplaces with Ber- 
nice Parke, his heart was full of the 
rapturous splendor of love. But well he 
knew that before he should disclose 
that radiance to her he must tell her all 
the turmoil of these six weeks and its 
ultimate effect upon his career — and a 
sad, tall figure came and stood before 
the love queen's throne and a tremor of 
pain ran over her beautiful face. And 
so Dr. Bestor told to Bernice Parke the 
same sad story he had told to Richard 

She listened a trifle wearily to his 
story. She had never taken much in- 
terest in the details of his profession, 
proud as she was to have him famous 
in it; and he seldom tired her by talk- 
ing of the things that meant life and 
work to him. Something, however, in 
the sad solemnity of his manner to- 
night made her feel that all this must 
be freighted with unusual significance, 
and when he reached the giving up of 
his work she was no longer indiffer- 
ent. Earnestly he talked of his obli- 
gation to Richard Farmington,. trying 
to make her feel, as he felt, that the 
path he had chosen was the only path 
of honor for him. 

"Don't you think you are over-sensi- 
tive, Dr. Bestor?" How he had hoped 
for sympathy and help ! Her comment 
pained and disappointed him more than 
he admitted to himself as he hurried 
on toward the conclusion — the only 
conclusion he could come to, yet one 
from which even now he instinctively 
shrank as one shrinks from severe and 
inevitable torture. 

"Bernice, I love you ! I had hoped to 
offer you a home of luxury and ele- 
gance. For many months I have been 
building a dream palace for you. The 
thought of you has been an inspiration 



to me in all the hard places of my work. 
All I can offer you now is a heart full of 
tenderest devotion, a life in which you 
might have to share hardship, in which 
I might have to be much separated 
from you. Will you be my inspiration 
still in this rough path in which my 
feet must walk? Oh, Bernice Bernice! 
— but no ! I will not plead with you. I 
could not go away without telling you 
of my love. I will not ask you for an 
answer to-night — to-morrow, perhaps — 
at least, before I start West." And so 
he said "good-night" and passed out 
into the quiet street. 

Something in her manner as she 
bade him "good-night" made his heart 
ache as he walked the three squares be- 
tween her home and his. Philip Bestor 
could not have told how her manner 
was different from what it had ever 
been. Any one else would not have 
known there was a difference. But with 
that unerring sensitiveness which is a 
special gift to lovers he felt, rather than 
saw, the proud reserve that was com- 
ing like a screen — ever so thin it may 
be, yet a screen — between his soul and 

And so, as he walked the quiet street 
again, with the street lights stretching 
ahead in a long, glittering line and the 
white stars shining overhead, no fairy 
group of gladsome thoughts danced 
about him. He was conscious only of 
that dim unrest, that indefinable sense 
of something gone amiss. 

With a heavy heart he entered his 
-rooms. Richard Farmington had al- 
ready retired. He sat down and looked 
wearily at the wall. Wearily the clock 
on the mantel ticked off the seconds. 
Each one fell an added weight upon 
his drooping spirit. He was not think- 
ing out this trouble with his masterly, 
capable mind ; he was letting the weary 
thoughts drag him along with them. 
He was not taking up this burden with 
courageous resistance; he was letting 
it press him down with a weight that 
grew heavier with each breath he drew. 
Many a noble, aspiring spirit has 
been crushed out by such dull, slow 

But would Philip Bestor, the man of 

the unselfish, courageous, victorious 
resolution in the case of Mr. Farming- 
ton, allow even definite and certain dis- 
appointment (to say nothing of such 
vague unrest of heart as he now felt) to 
come between him and his life purpose? 
No — and yet, perhaps, yes ! For, as we 
have said, he was naturally enthusiastic 
and deeply in love, and had one of 
those supersensitive, emotional natures, 
which, though they sometimes lie deep 
and unguessed by one's associates, yet 
hold infinite possibilities for torture or 

The doctor went to troubled dreams 
and woke with the same dim forebod- 
ing still in his heart. But morning, with 
its freshness, its renewal of life and new- 
made promises, brings a little inspira- 
tion even to sad lives ; and what looked 
dark in the dusk of evening wears a 
different appearance in the morning 
light. While faint hearts take a little 
pale new hope under the glad spell of 
the morning, strong hearts drink deep 
at the fountain of youth and courage, 
and go forth conquering into the new 

Though Philip Bestor was sensitive 
to all the fine shades of emotional joy 
or woe, yet he had a courageous heart 
— strong to face the hard things in life. 
So he put down this dim foreboding, 
scorned his last night's weakness, and 
told himself again and again that his 
fears had been foolish and imaginary, 
and that Bernice Parke had only been a 
little too painfully surprised at the sud- 
denness of it all; and when she had 
thought it over she would give him the 
help and sympathy and love that surely 
must answer the deep yearning of his 
soul for her. 

Dr. Bestor and Mr. Farmington had 
just returned from breakfast when Gor- 
don Parke called and asked for a talk 
with the doctor, and the two men went 
into the library. Mr. Parke began at 
once in a business-like way : 

"I understand from my daughter that 
you intend giving up your medical ca- 

"Yes, sir; that is my intention." 

"As an older man who has seen some- 
thing of the world, may I ask if you 



have considered what this will mean to 

"I believe I have weighed the con- 
sequences carefully, sir." 

"You perhaps do not appreciate the 
influence, the power, the supreme posi- 
tion you hold as a surgeon." 

"I think I have not been over-modest 
in regard to my success." 

"My dear sir, let me entreat you not 
to allow a matter of mere sentiment to 
deprive you of position, influence and 
wealth, and the medical profession of 
the foremost man in its ranks." 

"Mr. Parke," said the doctor, quietly 
and earnestly, "do you regard a man's 
soul as a matter of mere sentiment? By 
my own mistaken zeal I have brought 
the soul of Richard Farmington back 
from its rest on the bosom of infinite 
truth, to wander again this sin-cursed 
earth in a hostile environment, over 
which he had no control or influence, 
and God holds me responsible for that 
soul until He calls it again to Himself." 

"Certainly, doctor, I appreciate your 
feeling in the matter. This is a noble 
resolve to help your patient overcome 
his difficulties, but why give up your 
profession? Can you not help Richard 
Farmington and still give the medical 
world the benefit of your unparalleled 

"No, sir; much as I honor your 
greater age and superior judgment, 
there is no compromise possible in this 
case. My profession has been my idol. 
My devotion to it is such that, should I 
keep my place in it, Richard Farming- 
ton would soon be crowded out ; and, 
besides, since it is through my profes- 
sion that I have wronged a human soul, 
is it too great a thing to give up in or- 
der to atone for that wrong?" 

"Since you are firm in your decision. 
I must tell you that, under the circum- 
stances, I cannot give you my daugh- 
ter's hand. Good morning to you." And 
without further comment he walked 

The doctor sat dazed and astonished, 
trying to understand the meaning and 
motive of Gordon Parke's words. Ber- 
ni.ce must have told her father what 
the doctor had said the night before. 

Mr. Parke, being a man of the world, 
had doubtless opposed his daughter's 
marrying a person of no prominence, 
and had rushed off in his impetuosity to 
try to save what had seemed a brilliant 
and promising suit. Dr. Bestor did not 
know that love and pride had each 
struggled for the mastery in Bernice 
Parke's heart ; that she had thrown her- 
self into a chair as soon as he had gone 
and wept with grief and vexation and 
disappointment; that she had almost 
thought she loved him enough to marry 
him, anyway, but could not give up so- 
ciety, wealth, elegance — to trail about 
the world with Dr. Bestor, trying to 
keep a paltry Irishman out of mischief; 
that she had come to her father in the 
morning, red-eyed and petulant, and 
begged him to see if he could not turn 
the mind of her fanatic lover into a 
more sensible channel. All this Dr. 
Bestor did not know as he sat at his 
desk an hour later writing a note to 
her, telling of the interview with her 
father and asking her to allow him to 
call for her personal answer the fol- 
lowing evening. Her reply reached him 
in the afternoon : 



"Dr. Bestor : Dear Sir — You need not 
call for your answer. You may have 
now : I cannot marry a lunatic. 

"Bernice Parke." 

If Philip Bestor's sensitive nature 
had suffered from the faint, indefinite 
sense of Bernice Parke's disapproval the 
evening before, how would he sustain 
a blow like this? 

It is one of the greatest blessings the 
Creator has bestowed upon the race 
that we should be incapable of realizing 
at once any great and sudden trouble 
that comes upon us. There may be af- j 
terward long, slow days of pain in 
which to realize its fulness, but at first 1 
there is only the bewildered sense of 
change. There may be miles and miles 
of desert waste, with a leaden sky above 
and a fruitless earth beneath, and our 
two weary, spiritless feet to plod and 
plod and plod, with never a grassy spot 
to rest upon, but at first there is only 
the weird feeling of unfamiliarity ; and 



our cry is not the cry of desolation and 
despair, but that of a lost child. 

And so Philip Bestor, staggering and 
bewildered, went on preparing for his 
departure, calling over and over again 
from the painful emptiness of his heart 
the name of the woman he loved, as a 
V] little, uncomprehending child calls for 
er ''> its dead mother. And as the child may 
0ne ; J be interested in other things awhile 
ao |land then, with a sob of remembrance, 
10sl q repeats the call, so the man turned 
rr )| again and again from the occupations 
so i] of these last full days to utter that wild 
'J | heart cry. Yet in all the growing pain 
of his disappointment he did not think 
of giving up his purpose. With Philip 
Bestor a resolution reached through so 
much soul agony as this had required 
became a part of his life, not to be 
lightly torn away. 

So the day came for the departure. 
Dr. Bestor and Richard Farmington 
awaited the calling of the west-bound 
train in the midst of the ceaselessly- 
moving crowd at Broad street station. 
Suddenly Dr. Bestor was conscious of 
apair of deep-blue eyes resting upon 
him, and looked up to meet the gaze 
of Bernice Parke. 

"Bernice!" The heart utterance came 
j unbidden to his lips, full of the longing 
it was not meant to express. But the 
proud, beautiful face turned away, and 
| the doctor, with a throb of pain, walked 
j toward the gate. He did not look back 
j to see the wistful expression on Ber- 
nice Parke's face. He did not hear her 
i| call his name as he walked away in the 
! crowd. And he never knew that she 
| had learned the time of his departure 
j and had come there hoping to see his 
i face again before he went. 

The train for Chicago was called, 
and the two men with scores of other 
passengers were soon being whirled 
westward. Mr. Farmington spent the 
first hour or two of the way reading 
"Brown's Sociology," while the doctor 
looked sadly from the window. But 
the scenery flew past him unnoticed. 
He was trying vaguely and ineffectu- 
ally to read some connected meaning 
into his disturbed existence. There 
was no meaning in it all — no interest. 

He had been weaving a beautiful de- 
sign — suddenly the threads began to 
snarl — and now there was nothing but 
a tangled mass. That was all he could 
see as he reviewed his life, past and 
present. As for the future, it was all 
gray. Even his obligation to Richard 
Farmington had no color. 

When the train neared Altoona the 
doctor was still in his reverie. A num- 
ber of Irish laborers boarded the train 
at Altoona, but neither Richard Farm- 
ington nor the doctor gave them more 
than a passing notice. But the doctor 
overheard one of them, with his eyes 
fixed on Mr. Farmington, say : 

"Faith, Moike ! there's a mon looks 
loike Pete Murphy." 

"Sure! how can it be ony ither?" re- 
sponded his companion. 

"Oi thought he was killed in the 
wrick," said the first; "but that's sure 
the mon." 

"Hullo ! Pete; how are ye, old mon?" 
said one, laying his hand familiarly 
upon Mr. Farmington's shoulder. 

"Pardon me, sir, but you are mis- 
taken in the man. My name is Rich- 
ard Farmington." 

"A foine joke, that!" said the Irish- 
man with a rude laugh. "Sure, it's a 
foine joke for ye to be ridin' dressed 
up loike a dandy and sportin' the name 
o' Farmington!" 

Then, coming nearer, he whispered 
so loudly that Dr. Bestor overheard the 
words : "The wrick on the Reading 
saved ye the trouble of usin' your knife, 
eh, Pete?" 

"Sir, I know nothing of what you are 
saying. Will you have the courtesy 
not to disturb me further?" 

"My! listen to the airs of him, will 
ye! Where did ye come by that slick 
tongue o' yours, Pete?" 

"I shall be obliged to call the conduc- 
tor if you do not cease your nonsense 
at once," said Richard Farmington. 

"Ah, come now, Pete !" said one with 
a sly wink, pulling a bottle of whiskey 
from his hip pocket. 

An eager, hungry look came into 
Richard Farmington's face, and in- 
stantly his hand reached for the bottle 
and had it to his lips. With a quick, 



authoritative movement Dr. Bestor ar- 
rested the hand that held the bottle. 

"Mr. Farmington, I beg of you to 
consider what you are doing." 

With the suddenness of the realiza- 
tion, the hand relaxed its hold and the 
bottle lay in fragments upon the car 
floor, while the whiskey soaked into the 
carpet. The Irishman who presented 
the whiskey was very angry, and had 
the conductor not passed through the 
car at that instant here would doubtless 
have been blows. After a few words 
from Dr. Bestor, however, the conduc- 
tor ordered the Irishmen into the smok- 
ing car, and an hour later they became 
so intoxicated that they were put off 
the train. 

It was now Mr. Farmington's turn to 
sit in deep thought. Here had been 
another temptation, and how narrowly 
he had escaped it! In fact, so narrow 
had been his escape from each struggle 
through which he had passed that each 
hard-won victory, instead of strengthen- 
ing him for the conflict, left him less 
self-confident and more fearful of the 
way before him. Dr. Bestor realized 
this also, and felt more than ever as- 
sured of the need of his constant pres- 
ence and help for Richard Farmington. 

The fourth day of their journey 
brought them to San Francisco. The 
doctor had suggested that Mr. Farm- 
ington might have a room in the home 
of the doctor's brother-in-law, Robin- 
son Lee, which was readily arranged. 
Thus the doctor could be near his 
friend for the present without any 
seeming sacrifice. 

On the next day after their arrival in 
San Francisco Mr. Farmington wished 
to withdraw some money from the bank 
where he was a stockholder and de- 
positor. But here a new difficulty arose 
— the bank officials would not know 
him and he would have to be identified. 
Dr. Bestor being a stranger in the city, 
his identification would not be ac- 
cepted. Robinson Lee was the only 
man who could do it, and it was doubt- 
ful whether his slight knowledge would 
avail much. However, the three men 
went to the bank together. Approach- 
ing a clerk with whom Mr. Farmington 

had been personally acquainted Mr. I 
Lee presented first Dr. Bestor, who had 
a draft cashed ; next, "Mr. Richard 
Farmington, one of your depositors and 

The clerk looked astonished. "Rich- 
ard Farmington?" 

"Yes, sir; you have doubtless read of 
the remarkable operation performed 
upon him in Philadelphia." 

"But I thought Mr. Farmington 

"Well, yes — or no — that is — a part 
of him died." And Mr. Lee recounted 
the main features of the operation as 
he had heard them from Dr. Bestor. 

"Here is the operating surgeon," said 
Mr. Lee. "He will tell you the same." 
Dr. Bestor confirmed Mr. Lee's state- 

"I will call one of the cashiers," said 
the clerk. 

They went into a private office and 
there went over the whole ground 
again. But the cashier was in doubt 
and called in another and they both 
decided it should be referred to the 
president, who was spending a week in 
Oregon and would not return for sev- 
eral days. 

So Richard Farmington was forced 
to accept a loan from Dr. Bestor in 
order to meet some obligations that 
were already overdue owing to his pro- 
tracted absence in the East. 

When the president of the bank re- 
turned and considered the subject of 
Mr. Farmington's deposit and stock, he, 
in turn, referred it to the directors ; and 
they gave the decision that Richard 
Farmington, the depositor and stock- 
holder was dead, and that the man who 
called himself by that name had no 
right to the money. 

As a large part of Richard Farming- 
ton's money was in this bank he at 
once entered suit to recover what he 
believed to be his rights. The suit was 
conducted by two of the ablest lawyers 
in San Francisco. Dr. Bestor, at his 
own expense, sent for his first assistant 
in the operation and the nurse. The 
case had no precedent. The laws of 
California had no clause that would ap- 
ply. The counsel for the plaintiff tried 



to establish the identity of the person- 
ality of Richard Farmington. The de- 
fence argued that, since the plaintiff 
was Richard Farmington only in a very 
small part of him, if his claim were al- 
lowed another man might come with a 
much smaller part of him belonging to 
some one else, and so this species of 
"fraud" would advance from stage to 
stage, through all the gradations of 
grafted limbs and skin grafting, until 
there would be no security whatever in 
property. The court ruled in favor of 
the defence, and declared that the es- 
tate of the deceased Richard Farming- 
ton would be settled according to the 
laws of the state. 

The evening after the decision was 
reached in court Dr. Bestor sent a tele- 
gram to his attorney in Philadelphia : 

"Sell my property on Twenty-fourth 
street and send the money here as soon 
as possible." 

After the decision of the court in the 
case of "Richard Farmington versus 
the First National Bank of San Fran- 
cisco," the other companies in which 
Mr. Farmington had investments re- 
fused to pay dividends or to recognize 
in any way the man who declared him- 
self a stockholder. So Richard Farm- 
ington's entire fortune, not lavish, but 
ample, was swept beyond his grasp, and 
he found himself not only tempted and 
handicapped, but penniless in a world 
in which he did not properly belong. It 
is true the Reading road had granted 
him some damage money, but since he 
was apparently a strong and able man, 
having made a complete physical re- 
covery, the allowance made was very 
small. He had been advised by a Phil- 
adelphia lawyer to enter suit for more, 
but the decision of the California courts 
gave him little courage to try in the 

Dr. Bestor now entered upon his life 
work with renewed zeal, seeing all. the 
while a plainer path of duty before him, 
impelled by a real friendship for the 
unfortunate man. Yet in all his ear- 
nestness he had not forgotten Bernice 
Parke. In his heart he still kept a fire 
burning on the altar of her shrine. But 
now he was carrying his load coura- 

geously; not sinking helplessly beneath 
it. Loads do not crush when carried so. 

Richard Farmington's efforts to re- 
gain his property lasted through sev- 
eral months, and while they lasted there 
was little question in regard to the doc- 
tor's stay. But when the cases were all 
settled it was apparent to Dr. Bestor 
that he must find some new excuse for 
staying on. But first it must be decided 
what was the best way in which to help 
Richard Farmington. It seemed use- 
less as well as embarrassing for him to 
try to establish himself in the old fa- 
miliar life. He felt this himself, and 
had said so to the doctor as they talked 
over the situation one evening after 
the last court decision. 

Dr. Bestor saw that all this was hav- 
ing a disheartening effect upon Rich- 
ard Farmington. Now, he believed, was 
the time for the trip he had planned 
for them when the first gleam of his 
atonement shone in upon his troubled 

"Mr. Farmington," said he, as they 
strolled along the water's edge one af- 
ternoon, "in your previous existence 
you were a professor of sociology, were 
you not ?" 

"Yes, sir." 

"Have you any thought of taking up 
a similar line of work now?" 

"It had been my hope," said Richard 
Farmington ; "but my late experience 
with the people of San Francisco gives 
me no wish to appear again at Leland 
Stanford. The world has little use for 
a man a second time, it seems," and he 
smiled sadly. 

Dr. Bestor did not express the pro- 
found remorse and sympathetic pain 
he felt. He did not wish his sympathy 
to seem a "vain repetition" of words. 
He would make all his life a living ex- 
pression of repentant devotion. Be- 
sides, what Mr. Farmington needed now 
was not tender words of regret to make 
him pity himself, but inspiring words 
of hope and promise to set up a fair 
goal to be won, and to fan the dying 
embers of enthusiasm into life and light 

"If you should take up your work in 
a new place," continued the doctor, 



"you could soon win the same success 
that attended you before ; or you might 
study the problem from different popu- 
lar standpoints and go on the lecture 

"I have thought of that, too," said 
Richard Farmington; "but my Irish 
tongue !" 

"You are learning to govern it beau- 
tifully. Besides, hasn't an Irishman as 
good a right to 'teach the people 
knowledge' as any one else? You might 
go abroad and study the peasant prob- 
lem. Perhaps we might go together. I 
have always intended to go some time, 
and my sister insists that I ought to go 
now. She thinks I look thin and worn 
and need a rest ! — the way of sisters, 
you know. I do not feel the need of 
rest, but I half-believe I will go, any- 

And so it followed that the trip was 
planned, Dr. Bestor advancing the 
money, which Richard Farmington in- 
sisted on giving notes for. A few weeks 
later the two men landed at Liverpool, 
and for several months they travelled 
up and down in Europe; now among 
the peasants of France, now in the 
poorer districts of Russia, sometimes 
amid the abject wretchedness of for- 
eign cities; always going at Richard 
Farmington's suggestions, though, the 
doctor acquiescing quietly or even 
seeming at times to take the initiative, 
Richard Farmington did not realize 
that he journey was of his own plan- 

So engrossing was the study of peas- 
ant life, so full were the days of inter- 
est and of movement, that the months 
passed swiftly arid smoothly, with little 
of struggle or conquest on the part of 
Richard Farmington, and little demand 
for the personal protection and care 
of Dr. Bestor. 

At length the time came when Mr. 
Farmington felt that he had collected 
enough material for a course of lec- 
tures, and the travelers began to talk of 
returning to America. About this time 
the doctor began to speak in a some- 
what vague way of leaving his hospital 
position in Philadelphia and taking up 
^ome more independent work. By sug- 

gestions at first, later by reasons and 
arguments — the greater pleasure and 
efficiency of independent work; the re- 
strictions of hospital practice ; the over- 
crowding of the profession in Philadel- 
phia — Mr. Farmington was led to be- 
lieve that the doctor was just arriving 
at the decision that had been so. hardly 
wrought out some months before. 

"Will you practice as a physician 
elsewhere?" asked Richard Farming- 

"Not in the ordinary sense," was the 
reply. "I have come to believe that 
making the most of life does not al- 
ways mean making a brilliant record- 
of any kind, or even in following out 
what seems to be a heaven-born im- 
pulse in us. There come to us some- 
times quick flashes of revelation show- 
ing us the relative value of world- 
praise and the calm blessing of humble 

"Do you know," said Richard Farm- 
ington, "that same thought has been in 
my own mind lately. As we have gone 
among the poor, and I have collected 
material for my lectures, I have felt 
more and more impressed by the mis- 
ery of these people. I realize that one 
man's little effort, even though it be his 
best, cannot accomplish much for mil- 
lions of wretched ones. Yet our best 
is all that we can do." 

"In what way do you wish to reach 
the lower classes?" asked the doctor. 

"I should like to help them to saner 
and broader views of life and their po- 
sition in it ! — to give them courage to 
struggle upward ; to help them to avoid 
the thousand snares and vices of their 
class ; not exactly a missionary, you 
know, but an older and more fortunate 
brother, who could come to them in an 
attitude of sympathy and encourage- 
ment. What do you think, doctor?" 

"I commend you heartily! Let us 
seek out some miserable section of 
God's earth, where you may lead men 
to hope and life and love of good, and 
I will minister to their bodily ailments 
and help them to learn cleanly, whole- 
some, modes of life." 

During the homeward voyage many 
plans were discussed and many places 

Drawn by L. T. Hammond 

"Don't you think you are over-sensitive, Dr. Bestor ? 



mentioned. The city seemed to offer 
more opportunities for this kind of 
work than the country, and Chicago 
was, selected as the site of their first 

Two months later, the first of Sep- 
tember, found them settled. They 
rented a small apartment — as small as 
could be made to accommodate them. 
Richard Farmington insisted that it 
should be small, since he could not help 
pay for it. They found some difficulty 
at first in approaching the people they 
wished to help. This class had been 
preached to by plenty of rich people 
who did not know what they were talk- 
ing about. But soon they began to feel 
the sincerity of these two who came 
among them so simply, and discouraged 
and troubled men began to come to 
them with their difficulties. 

And so as the busy days passed their 
work became more interesting to Rich- 
ard Farmington and the doctor, their 
efforts more productive and the two 
friends came into a closer bond of con- 
geniality and common interest, and ex- 
perienced something of the joy of un- 
selfish service. 

Have you seen, on a still, starry 
evening, when the sky was cloudless 
and the moon seemed mild and benig- 
nant in her sovereignty, and the soft 
breezes fanned your cheek with a 
breath as calm as an angel's dream, the 
cold fog creep up from the mysterious 
hollows of the darkness, rising and ris- 
ing about you, coming between you 
and the dear, familiar things still near 
at hand, chilling your very heart with 
its death-like mystery? 

As the winter advanced, Dr. Bestor 
felt a little, nameless reserve on the 
part of Richard Farmington. In an- 
other man even the doctor's sensitive 
perception would not have noticed it. 
But the close friendship of these two, 
together with the doctor's ever-vigilant 
care for the welfare of Richard Farm- 
ington, made any change, ever so slight, 
a thing to be noted and watched. 

The work was going on hopefully. 
There seemed to be no flagging of in- 
terest on the part of either. Richard 
Farmington had had several struggles 

with the taste for strong drink, but 
each time, with the doctor's help, he 
had come off victorious, and Dr. Bestor 
believed that this taste would finally be 
entirely overcome. Oncewalking along 
a crowded street they passed a lady, 
when, quick as a flash, Richard Farm- 
ington's hand seized her purse, and be- 
fore the doctor could stop him he be- 
gan to run. The lady called "Thief!" 
The police caught the culprit and hur- 
ried him to the police station, where, 
only through Dr. Bestor's earnest 
pleading and full explanation, and 
Richard Farmington's utter humilia- 
tion, he was released. There had been 
other similar cases, yet all these things 
had served to strengthen the tie be- 
tween them. Whence, then, came this 
strange reserve? 

The doctor redoubled his efforts to 
be companionable, was more careful to 
accompany Mr. Farmington in his 
visits among the poor and wretched, 
even where his own services were not 
required. AVhatever this strange influ- 
ence was, he must find it and be ready 
to help. That was his life work — to 
help Richard Farmington. He was re- 
sponsible for Mr. Farmington in every 
movement of this second life of his. 
Therefore; even a breath of trouble 
weighed heavily upon the doctor's 

But watch as he might, and try as 
he might, by every means he knew, to 
draw Richard Farmington into his con- 
fidence, the reserve grew more intense 
and painful — and the doctor still had 
no clue. 

One Saturday night, in the middle 
of March, the doctor wakened sud- 
denly from his first sleep. A wild wind 
was raging from the lake. The clock 
on the wall was just striking eleven. 
The windows rattled noisily. But amid 
all the commotion the doctor was sure 
he heard the latch of the hall door. He 
called Richard Farmington, whose cot 
was in the same room as his own; no 
reply. He arose and crossed the room 
and laid his hand upon Mr. Farming- 
ton's pillow. He recoiled as if he had 
touched a snake in the dark and gasped 
with a sickening sensation of fear. Mr. 



Farmington was not there ! Not there? 
Dr. Bestor shuddered at the thought. 
Where had he gone? What new dan- 
ger might he meet? Was there no 
heavenly guardian to be spared to 
watch' this man while the doctor slept? 
What was to be done? The mad im- 
pulse to follow came first; and the 
doctor, seizing his clothes, dashed 
down the stairway to the street. 

Up or down? Right or left? He 
looked and listened a moment, but saw 
and heard nothing, then blindly has- 
tened down the dim street. Turning 
now and then, he tried a new course 
at random. Sometimes the figure of a 
late passer or of a policeman at a dis- 
tance gave him a faint ray of hope. 
Breathlessly he hurried on, disap- 
pointed at each turn, growing more 
and more frenzied in his search. For 
nearly an hour he continued his search, 
till he stopped at last, exhausted, dis- 
heartened and bewildered. He had not 
taken time to notice his course, and he 
now found himself in an unfamiliar 
part of the city, with no idea of his 
situation or even of the direction of his 
home. Accosting a policeman, he 
breathlessly asked the way to his lodg- 
ng. The officer, eyeing him sharply 
ind noting the excitement of his man- 
ler, said: "I guess you can find your 
vay all right when you're sober," and 
valked on in his beat. The doctor, 
hagrined at this rebuff, advanced more 
lowly, calming himself as much as 
>ossible before he should meet the next 
joliceman. This time he received a 
ore civil reply and twenty minutes 
rought him to his rooms again. 
He almost feared to enter lest he 
ould find Richard Farmington there ; 
et to know of his return was the one 
ing he wished most. But Richard 
armington was not there. Dr. Bestor 
ranged the room just as it had been 
hen he awakened and went back to 
ed, that Richard Farmington might 
ot suspect that he had been up. 
There was, of course, no more sleep 
r the doctor that night, and he had 
me to think more sanely now. He 
alized the rashness of his wild, clue- 
less search in the night. He was tor- 

tured with apprehensions of the 
gravest character. But whatever he 
did, he must act calmly. Richard Farm- 
ington's late reserve showed the doc- 
tor that he could not count on a confi- 
dential talk with him now. He must 
not let Mr. Farmington suspect his un- 
easiness and he must watch unceas- 

The clock had already struck two 
when the doctor heard cautious foot- 
steps in the hall. The door opened 
softly and Richard Farmington came 
in. He paused a moment inside the 
door; then, coming softly to the doc- 
tor's side, he listened to his breathing. 
It was a hard moment for the doctor, 
but his breath came slowly and heavily, 
and Richard Farmington, satisfied that 
he was unnoticed, crept softly to his 
own bed. 

The next day the men went together 
on their rounds. Dr. Bestor failed to 
see any decrease in Richard Farming- 
ton's interest. He even began to cen- 
sure himself for his apprehensions of 
the night before. Perhaps Mr. Farm- 
ington had been absent on some errand 
of mercy in the night. Perhaps it was 
a case of "not letting the left hand 
know." However, the doctor would 
watch to-night. His responsibility was 
too great to be neglected on the strength 
of probabilities. 

That evening they talked over some 
new plans for the classes they would 
conduct after working hours for the 
men who cared for them. They talked 
of ways in which they might make 
these attractive; of the courses they 
would teach and the good they hoped 
to do. At the usual hour they retired, 
and the doctor began his silent, wake- 
ful vigil. 

Tt is hard to keep awake alone in the 
dark, but the doctor was in earnest. 
Past ten and eleven he waited. It 
must be nearly twelve. Most likely 
Mr. Farmington would not go out to- 
night — perhaps. What! Had he been 
asleep? His activities of the night be- 
fore and the busy day which had fol- 
lowed had overcome his tired body at 
last with sleep. Surely it had been 
only a moment. He would turn up the 



gas ever so little and get himself a 
drink and thus see if Richard Farm- 
ington were really there. No ! He was 
gone ! and it was half-past twelve ! 

Overwhelmed with remorse, and 
heaping upon himself bitter and un- 
just reproaches, Dr. Bestor stared 
fiercely at the empty cot with clenched 
hands and rigid form. He did not, 
however, repeat the folly of the pre- 
vious night, but, going back to bed, 
waited. He had waited more than an 
hour when sleep again overcame him, 
and when he awakened and stirred Mr. 
Farmington was bending over him as 
he had done on the night before. A 
cold shudder came over the doctor as 
he heard Richard Farmington slip back 
into his pocket something metallic and 
cross the room with an unsteady tread. 

On the third night the doctor mixed 
himself a stimulant that would be sure 
to keep him awake, and prepared to 
watch as before. About eleven o'clock 
Mr. Farmington arose, dressed silently, 
came stealthily to Dr. Bestor's side and 
listened to his slow, regular breathing; 
then, quietly unlatching the door, went 
out. He had scarcely gone three steps 
when Dr. Bestor sprang up, seized his 
clothes in tense silence and a moment 
later was on his trail. He wore soft- 
soled slippers, and with these he leaped 
down the stairs and was on the street 
just in time to see Mr. Farmington's 
figure disappear around the corner. He 
had little difficulty in following — 
through narrow streets and finally 
through a dark alley to a low, rear 
door, which opened and closed so 
quickly that the doctor, three rods 
away, could not see anything but a 
light. Coming nearer, however, he 
found a small offset in the wall where 
he might stand concealed from any 
passer-by. Soon two men passed, talk- 
ing guardedly. The doctor caught the 
words, "Dick Farmington," and saw 
the two men enter the same low door. 
Another and another passed with 
stealthy, cat-like tread. Then there 
were no more. The doctor looked up 
and down, and, seeing no one, ventured 
nearer the door. He could hear coarse 
laughter and rude, harsh voices, and 

knew that the men were drinking and 
gambling and planning deeds of crime. 

"Dick, if you'd only get rid of that 
blessed deacon of yours, you might 
spend your days as well as your nights 
to some purpose, instead of nosing 
around like a pious saint among men' 
who are as good as yourself." 

Mr. Farmington's reply was not 
heard, but Dr. Bestor had heard enough 
and hastened away to his room. What 
could he do? His own life was in 
danger. Was this the outcome of all 
his endeavor? The doctor's heart sank 
— his courage faltered. Where was now 
the "calm blessing of unselfish ser- 
vice"? Utterly discouraged, the doctor 
again went to bed, determined to be on 
his guard if Mr. Farmington should 
attempt an attack. Further than this 
he could not think. 

The door opened as before and Mr. 
Farmington came in. The doctor 
could see something glitter in his hand 
as he passed the gas jet and came to 
the bed. The doctor stirred and sighed 
as if awaking, and, opening his eyes, 
said: "Why, is that you, Richard? 
Did you want something?" 

"My head aches so that I cannot 
sleep. Could you give me something 
for it?" 


By the time the doctor had turned 
on the light the glittering thing had 
disappeared, and Mr. Farmington was 
leaning wearily in a chair. No men- 
tion was made of the fact that he still 
wore his day clothing. 

The remedy, however, did not re- 
lieve the sick man. He slept some, but 
awakened in the morning weak and 
with little inclination to rise. The doc- 
tor had given him a mild, though weak- 
ening, drug that would keep him quiet 
for a day or two and allow time for a 
little thinking. 

Engrossed as he was by his new 
perilous situation, Dr. Bestor took time 
to look over the morning paper. He 
was interested in the sensational fraud 
exposures which had been coming out 
in connection with the leading traction 
company of Philadelphia. The glaring 
headlines of this morning's paper be- 



tokened more excitement. Rapidly the 
doctor's eyes ran over them till they 
stopped short as he read : 



Involved to the Amount of $50,000.00! 

Sensational Testimony Brought 

Out by District Attorney! 

The account went on to tell how Mr. 
Parke, attorney for the defence, had 
been conducting a most brilliant case, 
foiling the prosecution in every attack, 
until yesterday, when new evidence 
was brought in that showed Gordon 
Parke to have obtained more than any 
other man in the big graft. His expos- 
ure was followed by his arrest, and the 
brilliant and wealthy lawyer, the man 
of the world and of society, was taken 
to the city jail for the night. The at- 
tendants, on opening the cell in the 
morning, found the prostrate form of 
the dead man. 

As Dr. Bestor read the account of 
the father's crime and misfortune his 
sympathies were awakened for the 
daughter. "Poor Bernice ! How could 
she endure a shock like this?" He 
seemed to see the deep blue of her 
mournful eyes looking at him across 
the miles in sad appeal. He was her 
lover, and he should have been her pro- 
tector and her support in such an hour. 
Besides, what a miserable failure he 
had made of his efforts to help Rich- 
ard Farmington ! It was a sad mistake 
to leave her so. He must repair it even 
yet. And so he wrote : 

"My Dearest Bernice: Let me come 
and comfort you in this deep trial. I 
love you still. I have always loved 
you, even when I tried to persuade 
myself that I did not. It was a mis- 
take to leave you. You were right — I 
was over-sensitive. I see it now. I 
am coming back to my profession and 
to you. Only tell me that I may, dear. 
Only forgive the long, weary months 
when I was away from you, and let me 
stand always between you and every- 
thing that can harm you or annoy you. 
You cannot know how long and sad the 

time has been to me. Let us forget our 
troubled past in a perfect future to- 
gether. Yours always, 

"Philip Bestor." 

He folded the letter, dreaming of a 
rest from the turbulent life he now led ; 
of the sweet bliss of the renewed love 
of the only woman of his heart; of the 
fair renown and joy he might yet gain 
from his profession. As he placed the 
letter in the envelope and pressed down 
the flap a weary sigh from Richard 
Farmington brought him back to him- 
self. Suddenly he remembered all the 
stern conflict that had brought him to 
where he was. Should all that strug- 
gle, that inflexible pointing of duty, 
that anguish of renunciation, these 
months of patient endeavor, count for 
nothing now? Again he recalled the 
black horror of his first realization of 
the enormity of the wrong he had done 
Richard Farmington. If God held him 
responsible for the soul of Richard 
Farmington when that soul was white 
with the sanctity of the joy everlasting 
whence it had returned, how much 
more would He hold him responsible 
now, when that soul was dark with 
the shadows of shame and dishonor and 
crime. For a moment two angels 
seemed beckoning him to follow in two 
opposite directions. One wore the ra- 
diant form of Bernice Parke, the other's 
name was Duty; and, though plain in 
her aspect, she had in her face a peace 
that Philip Bestor could not find in 
the eyes of Bernice Parke. Deliber- 
ately he picked up the letter he had 
just written and tore it into a hundred 
pieces, and again faced his life bravely 
and squarely. 

No definite plans could be made 
about a course to follow. He would 
have to wait and be ready to meet any 
emergency when it came up. In the 
meantime, while Richard Farmington 
lay weak and helpless, the doctor at- 
tended him with the utmost tenderness 
and devotion. The end of three days, 
when the effect of the drug should 
have run its course, found Richard 
Farmington still unable to rise. A week 
passed and still he was prostrate. Dr. 



Bestor believed that Mr. Farmington 
had received a somewhat enervated 
body from the Irishman. This fact, to- 
gether with his late irregularities, 
accounted for his illness. A strong 
man could not long have endured the 
earnest day work and the constant 
night revelry in which Mr. Farmington 
had engaged. 

As day followed day, and then days 
lengthened into weeks and there was 
still no sign of recovery, Dr. Bestor 
continued to show every consideration 
for the man under his care. With all 
his reserve and the influence of his late 
criminal tendencies, still the doctor 
found him lovable. Underlying all was 
the strong and beautiful personality of 
Richard Farmington. Patiently the 
doctor set about winning over again 
the old-time confidence. He talked 
with the sick man when the sick man 
seemed to care for it. Gently and care- 
fully he led the conversation into 
peaceful and friendly channels. Grad- 
ually he began to make suggestions 
that might appeal to the better side of 
Richard Farmington's nature, and his 
efforts were not fruitless. Little by 
little the doors of Richard Farming- 
ton's inner self began to swing open. 
Still the doctor waited. He would not 
presume upon the other's friendship. 

At last one evening — it was midsum- 
mer now — as the doctor sat beside the 
bed and the two men were talking of 
the work, they had come to Chicago to 
do, and of what they hoped still to do, 
suddenly Richard Farmington grasped 
the doctor's hand and cried : "Oh, 
Philip ! Philip ! If I had done my part 
of the work as you have done yours, 
Chicago would be a better city than it 
is to-day." 

The doctor replied that he thought 
Mr. Farmington had done all that he 
could, and that his help had been in- 

"No, no ! You do not know all. You 
do not know what evil influence I have 
exerted that more than balanced the 
good. You do not know how many 
sleepless nights brought on this pros- 
tration. You do not know the danger 
you yourself were in." 

Dr. Bestor did know, but remained 
silent. Then followed the whole 
broken confession ! — how the struggles 
with the Irish body had first resulted 
in conquest; how, little by little, be- 
ing always under temptation, always 
in the presence of unholy tendencies, 
he began to look upon them with more 
and more tolerance, until he became a 
slave to the insubordinate cravings. 
Now under the influence of Dr. Bes- 
tor's unselfish devotion, removed from 
the temptations that had so sorely be- 
set him, the better man had gained the 
ascendency, the sleeping conscience 
had awakened and was wrung with re- 
morse to see what havoc had been 
wrought while she slept. 

By his confession and a re-estab- 
lishment of the old genial relation be- 
tween himself and the doctor a weight 
seemed lifted from Richard Farming- 
ton's heart, and from that day he be- 
gan to gain strength. Before he was 
strong enough, however, to resume his 
work, he had a serious talk with the 
doctor about the future. At his own 
request they rented another apartment, 
consisting of two rooms, one opening 
out of the other. Richard Farmington 
insisted upon sleeping in the inner 
room, with the door locked from the 
outside. Dr. Bestor was reluctant to 
make an arrangement so humiliating 
for his friend ; but upon the latter's 
continued insistence he consented, 
knowing himself that it was really the 
best thing to do. It was also Mr. 
Farmington's request to accompany 
the doctor always; to be at all times 
where the doctor could reach him in 
a few minutes. This was, indeed, the 
arrangement that Dr. Bestor had striven 
to maintain. Now he thought his care 
would be easier, since he had the co- 
operation of Richard Farmington him- 

"If it had not been for you, I should 
have been hopelessly lost long ago," 
cried Richard Farmington in a burst 
of gratitude. 

"If it had not been for me, you would 
now be safe in the arms of eternal 
peace," replied the doctor, sadly. 

The new arrangement having been 



made, they renewed their work with 
increased earnestness. It needs not 
that we follow them through all the 
fifteen years of their endeavor, striving 
with holy consecration to make the 
world a better, fairer heritage. It 
needs not that we recall the many pit- 
falls in the path of Richard Farming- 
ton, the many conflicts with that 
strange, alien self — aye, the many falls 
and the many contrite risings again. 
It needs not that we paint in detail the 
unselfish devotion, the untiring ser- 
vice, the unwavering sacrifice of Philip 

The summer of the fifteenth year 
since Dr. Bestor and Richard Farm- 
ington entered upon their work in Chi- 
cago found both men still working out 
the fulfilment of the dream that came 
to them while studying the lower 
classes of Europe. Their work had 
greatly enlarged. Many other earnest 
workers had joined them. Three night 
schools were now conducted. There 
were Saturday evening talks. There 
were reading rooms. There were base- 
ball fields and various other amuse- 
ments. Some of the youths who found 
inspiration fifteen years ago in the lives 
of the two earnest men who led the 
movement were now valiant workers 
with them. Yet with all the increased 
force of workers and the expansion of 
the plan, Philip Bestor and Richard 
Farmington were still regarded as the 
heads. To them were referred all diffi- 
cult questions of management, and if 
the men in any of the classes felt the 
need of special help and uplift, it was 
to these two men that they brought 
their burdens. 

The years of toil and anxiety and 
trouble and care had left their marks 
on both. They were now but little past 
middle age, yet both had been under 
severe stress. Dr. Bestor, though still 
alert, sensitive, enthusiastic, had lost 
some of the impetuosity of his younger 
years. Though still erect and stately, 
he moved more slowly than he did 
fifteen years ago, and the once luxuri- 
ous brown hair was white and thin 
upon his brow. Richard Farmington's 
hair was also gray and his step broken ; 

and the face, once seamed with lines of 
hardship and dishonor, though now 
softened by the real beauty of the soul 
within, had gained new lines of strug- 
gle and pain. Many of the evil ten- 
dencies to which he was subject had 
been in a large measure subdued. He 
had "fought a good fight," had con- 
quered one enemy after another, until 
it seemed sometimes that the conquest 
must be nearly over. Yet again and 
again, from some unlooked-for direc- 
tion, at some unguarded entrance, a 
new enemy would come in; and then- 
there would be the hard combat — the 
fierce blows — and often it was only 
through Dr. Bestor's timely aid that 
victory was won at all. 

One Saturday evening of this fif- 
teenth summer Richard Farmington 
and Dr. Bestor went to the hall where 
the doctor was to talk to the men. 
There was the usual good attendance, 
for so devoted were the men to their 
leaders that they never failed to hear 
them when they could. The hall was 
already filled when the two gray- 
haired gentlemen entered and walked 
to the front. Dr. Bestor had scarcely 
begun speaking, however, when a few 
strangers became noisy in the rear of 
the room, and Richard Farmington 
walked quietly back to them while the 
doctor continued his discourse. 

"We are apt to think too much about 
sacrifice," he was saying. "If a man 
gives up tobacco that his son may be 
educated; if he gives up whiskey that 
his wife may have a comfortable home 
and dress respectably among her equals 
— nay, if a man gives up his pleasures, 
his comforts, his necessities even, for 
the sake of wife or children or neigh- 
bors or friends, is that sacrifice? No, 
brothers; that is gain! We must live 
not for ourselves, but for each other. 
We must be willing to give even when 
we do not see where the gain will come 
from. For there is joy in service that 
pays now and here for every unselfish 
deed that we can do, if we but try to 
find it. And if the son comes back from 
school strong and good and ready to 
help ; and if the wife's face loses the 
weary look it had and wears a contented 



smile; and if the friend or neighbor is 
warm where he was cold, or is glad 
where he was sorrowful, or is true and 
brave where he was weak and cow- 
ardly — then you have received double 
pay for all your outlay. You have the 
lasting joy in your heart and the good 
you have done besides. We can never 
face life squarely until we have learned 
the true meaning of sacrifice and ser- 
vice. Not the sacrifice that says, 'Ah 
me, how much have I given ! Surely 
the Lord owes me a special blessing 
for all I have done!' Hush, brother! 
The Lord owes you nothing at all, even 
though you spend your whole life in 
His service. Yet, though he owes you 
nothing, He continues to bless you 
more and more. We miss too many of 
our blessings because we are looking 
for some great and dazzling reward to 
be bestowed upon us, while in reality 
every deed of service for others brings 
with it its own reward of joy." 

This was Dr. Bestor's favorite theme 
— his lesson, his message for the world. 
It was the same thought that he ex- 
pressed to Richard Farmington in the 
first laying of their present plans. It 
was his text to live by. As he grew 
more engrossed in his theme and more 
earnest in his speech, he did not see 
Richard Farmington pass out the door 
of the room between two men. "None, 
indeed, did see it except those near the 
door, for all were held by the spell of 
the doctor's earnest manner. When he 
had finished his speech he looked about 
for Richard Farmington. Not finding 
him beside him, he remembered that 
he had gone down to the rear of the 
room during the talk, and his eye 
sought . anxiously among the many 
faces and could not find the one it 

"Is Mr. Farmington in the room?" 
he inquired. 

"No, sir," replied a youth near the 
door. "He went out with them fellers 
that was makin' a racket." 

A sickening premonition of coming 
ill swept over Dr. Bestor as he took 
his hat and hurried out, excusing him- 
self hastily from those who wished to 
speak with him. All this work for the 

men of Chicago was secondary always 
to his care for Richard Farmington. 
He knew not which way to turn. As 
on the occasion of his first frenzied 
night search for Richard Farmington, 
he had an almost uncontrollable im- 
pulse to hasten somewhere. Yet he 
knew that to search in the mazes of 
the city for one lost man was mad- 
ness, and he started homeward with a 
heavy heart. 

He had walked little more than a 
square along the dim street, silent ex- 
cept for a few men going home from 
the meeting, when, as he passed the 
end of an alley, he thought he heard 
a human groan. Stopping, he listened 
and the groan came again. Fifteen un- 
selfish years had made such a sound to 
Dr. Bestor an imperative call for as- 
sistance. Turning down the dark al- 
ley, he groped his way carefully with 
hands and feet. Soon he could hear 
some one breathing heavily, and then 
again the groan almost in his ears. 
Stooping, he felt about with his hands 
and came upon a man lying near the 

"Who are you, brother?" but the 
man did not speak. Lifting him in his 
arms, he carried him, a limp, heavy 
burden, to the deserted street and laid 
him down under the light. He would 
call the ambulance at once — no, he 
would examine the man and see if he 
needed such immediate care as the doc- 
tor could give him. The face was 
bruised and bleeding as he turned it 
toward the light — so bruised that he 
thought he had never seen it before. 
As he loosened and threw back the 
coat he noticed a paper extending from 
an inner pocket. Drawing it forth, he 
glanced at it and read the name of 
Richard Farmington. Wildly turning 
the face again toward the light, he ten- 
derly brushed it with his handkerchief. 
Yes, it was Richard Farmington ! The 
doctor rushed to the nearest signal sta- 
tion and called the ambulance. When 
it arrived he ordered the injured man 
taken to his own lodging. 

All night Richard Farmington lay 
unconscious, moaning with every 
breath. All nght Dr. Bestor and Dr. 




Drawn by L. T. Hammond 

" HE NOTICED A paper extending EROM AN inner pocket" 


Clayton, whom he had summoned, did 
all that medical skill could do to re- 
vive the sinking spark of life. It 
seemed he could not live till morning. 
But toward daylight he rallied a little 
and seemed stronger and Dr. Clayton 
went away, promising to return in 
three or four hours. 

A slender streak of the sun's first 
light shone across the sick room as 
Richard Farmington came back to con- 

"Philip," he said feebly, "I am so 
glad you are here. I am so glad that I 
can speak to you before I go " 

The doctor thought him delirious. 

"Where are you going?" he asked. 

"Out again into the infinite. Last 
night I thought I must go without see- 
ing you — without telling you again 
how I thank you. With all my heart 
I thank you, Philip — you and God. 
And, oh ! Philip, I wanted you to know 
that I had won in the last struggle and 
that I go victorious." 

There was scarcely time for the tell- 
ing, and the words came brokenly at 
the last; but from them Dr. Bestor 
learned of that last conflict in the 
night; how the men had swept Rich- 



ard Farmington through the door be- 
fore he could object (they were the 
same men that he had first encountered 
on the train as he and Dr. Bestor were 
starting for San Francisco) ; how they 
had allured him and made him most 
tempting offers if he would join their 
lawless band; how the old craving 
came again so fierce and bitter that he 
thought he must yield; how, when he 
refused, they bribed and tempted more 
and at last resorted to blows ; how they 
had dragged him into the alley, almost 
unconscious, thinking him dead, and 
had fled away; and how, in the last 
moments of consciousness, he heard 
like an angel voice the words, "Who 
are you, brother?" and knew that Dr. 
Bestor had come. 

"Do not try to keep me," he cried. 
"My soul is already full of the limitless 
joy. She is spreading her wings for 

flight — Philip " but the soul had 

gone and Philip Bestor was glad; glad 
with a solemn, unspeakable joy that 
Richard Farmington was beyond the 
temptations and sorrows and limita- 
tions of a life which had been wrongly 
thrust upon him. 

Philip Bestor's atonement was ac- 
complished. The care and vigil were 
over. What should he do with the few 
years of activity that might yet be left 
for him? This was the question that 
faced him when he began again to think 
of himself. Should he go on with the 
work that Richard Farmington and he 
had built up and learned to love? This 
was impossible. In the fifteen years of 
the life and work in Chicago, Dr. Bes- 
tor had never hesitated to spend what 
seemed needed for the work. He had 
rented rooms and paid board and cloth- 
ing bills for himself and Richard Farm- 
ington, and had given whatever was 
lacking for carrying out any projected 
plan. Now he found himself almost 
penniless. He would not be dependent 
upon the other workers. He would 
leave the work for younger hands and 
hearts. Should he re-enter his profes- 
sion and take up again the work that 

had answered the enthusiasm of his 
young manhood, thus supporting him- 
self and giving again to the world the 
results of his marvelous skill? Sadly 
he remembered Richard Farmington's 
words : "The world has little use for a 
man a second time," and he felt that 
this would be true of his profession. 
Younger men with new ideas would 
have no place for the gray-haired doc- 
tor. Should he go to his sister, who 
was now the only surviving member 
of his family besides himself? But 
Mrs. Lee had never quite sympathized 
with her brother in his enterprise. She 
had been proud of his renown, and 
vexed that he should so lightly, as she 
thought, throw it all away.. She would 
be still more vexed that his fortune 
also had been sacrificed on what she 
was pleased to term the altar of his 
fanaticism. Nothing was left, there- 
fore, but toil — daily hard work for the 
hands that had ministered to suffering 
and distress. Yet Philip Bestor faced 
his future nobly. No bitterness of toil 
and hardship, no heavy load of weari- 
ness and pain, no loneliness, could rob 
him of the holy peace that rose like 
incense from the censer of his fifteen 
years of service for Richard Farming- 
ton. He did not count it hard that he 
must now enter a life of toil. His heart 
was so full of gratitude for heaven's 
blessings on his past efforts, and for 
Richard Farmington's triumphant en- 
try into the realms of infinite truth, 
that he felt that all he could do or en- 
dure would be only a little payment of 
his debt. . 

So thought Philip Bestor and so he 
planned. But Supreme Justice, tender 
and infinitely wise, cancelled the debt, 
pronounced the atonement sufficient, 
and, opening the door of eternity, 
said : "Enter thou into the joys of thy 

Two weeks after the death of Rich- 
ard Farmington, Philip Bestor was 
found dead in bed. "Heart failure," the 
coroner said, and so it was written in 
the records of the city. 

At Whitsuntide 



Rev. Peter Holton, D.D., an aged clergyman. 
Anna Holton, his niece. 
Henry Marvin, a wealthy parishioner. 
Dudley Mead, a newspaper reporter. 
SCENE — Living room at the rectory. 
TIME— Last Summer. 

THE living-room at Rev. Peter 
Holton's rectory is made attrac- 
tive largely because of the sim- 
plicity of its furnishings. Not only 
this, but at the back and almost in the 
centre, known as up stage, there is a 
lattice window, through which one sees 
the garden. The sun is shining bright- 
ly, revealing a quiet charm both out 
and indoors. The interior is by no 
means bare of adornment, for there is 
much bric-a-brac, some fashioned by 
Anna's own hand, and more that has 
been in the family for years ; accumu- 
lated, so to speak, by successive gen- 
erations. The furniture is both old 
and new. The armchair at the (stage) 
right and the table (center) are of a 
substantial type common a half-cen- 
tury ago. There is a fireplace at (stage) 
right, which stands between two doors. 
One of these latter, that nearest the 
audience, leads to the garden. Through 
the upper right-hand door one is ad- 
mitted to the rector's study. At the 
(stage) left is the door that opens on 
the front piazza. There are several 
places where vases of flowers may be 
placed, including the mantelpiece, the 
center-table and two small tables at 
left and right. Both old-fashioned and 
modern pictures hang upon the wall. 
As the curtain is lifted, Anna Holton 
enters through the front (left) door. 
She carries a gathering basket filled 

with daisies and garden roses, which 
she places on the table at center. Here 
there are six or seven empty vases. 
Anna proceeds to cut and arrange the 

ANNA — ■ 

"Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, 
Old time is still a-flying, 
And this same flower that blooms to- 
Tomorrow may be dying." 

Who doubts, if all else fails, I may 
become a florist? — a lady florist, a po- 
etical lady florist, who greets her cus- 
tomers like this: "Roses you wish? 
Certainly, madame. How many and 
which poet do you prefer? One dozen 
buds and Sir Walter Scott. Certainly, 
madame. Here are your roses and here 
your quotation: 

" 'The rose is fairest when 'tis budding 
And hope is brightest when it 
dawns from fears ; 
The rose is sweetest wash'd with 
morning dew, 
And love is loveliest when em- 
balmed in tears.' " 

(Laughingly) — Not a bad idea; that 
is, without the poetry. How would it 
appeal to Uncle Peter, I wonder? Poor 

(All rights reserved. Permission to produce may be obtained from author.) 




Uncle Peter ! I haven't seen him since 
breakfast. (Looking towards the study 
door at upper right.) It seems a pity 
that a man of his years should be forced 
to work so hard. Some people think a 
clergyman has nothing to do but go 
about making calls and drinking tea 
with nice old ladies. They expect him 
to preach on Sunday, but intimate that 
he may have borrowed the sermon, or 
at least used it some time before. If 
they knew the truth, they wouldn't say 
such things. Now, then, all the vases 
are filled except this one. Daisies, in- 
deed ! What does the poetical lady 
florist know of them? I have it, and 
from Hood : 

"The daisy's cheek is tipp'd with a 
She is of such low degree." 

(Placing the filled vases about the 
room.) Uncle Peter must see these 
while they are fresh and lovely. 
(Knocks on study door.) Uncle Peter, 
Uncle Peter, won't you come out just 
a moment? Please do ; you need a rest 
from that horrid grind. (Makes face of 
mock self-reproach.) Forgive me, 
uncle ; I did not mean to say "horrid 
grind." But come out here, won't you? 

hol. (opening study door and enter- 
ing living room) — Anna, it quite cheers 
my old heart to see you so happy. 

anna — And I want you to cheer my 
heart by being happy yourself. Come, 
see the flowers. They are your favor- 
ites. (Both go about admiring the 
loaded vases.) Uncle Peter, you never 
can guess what idea came to me while 
I was arranging these flowers. Sit 
down in your armchair and let me tell 
you. (Holton sits and Anna kneels be- 
side him.) 

hol. — Yes, my darling. 

anna — It doesn't seem quite fair, 
Uncle Peter, that you should be work- 
ing so hard, so very hard, and I fritter- 
ing the time away. 

hol. — But, Anna, my child. 

anna — It's true, uncle, and it isn't 
right. Why can't I share at least some 
of the burden by growing flowers for 
the market? You remember I did bet- 
ter in botany than in any of my spe- 

cials, and there is our empty conserva- 
tory, which really ought to be in use. 
Please? I mean it in all seriousness. 
You, perhaps, don't realize it, but you 
are working too hard. The vestry 
ought to retire you after all these years 
with a substantial allowance ; make 
you rector emeritus of Trinity parish, 
and let you live in comfort on your 
regular salary. You could advise me 
about the greenhouses. (Studying his 
face.) Oh, I know it is hard to give 
up, but at any rate they ought to pro- 
vide you with an assistant. (Looking 
again at him.) Does it make you feel 
bad? Let me talk to Mr. Marvin; he's 
senior warden and seems to have the 
greatest influence. I'm going to tell 
him just what I think. 

hol. — Anna, my girl, you have a gen- 
erous heart and an impulsive nature, 
but I could not allow you to do that, 
even if I thought it to be the right 
course. Since you have broached the 
subject, however, I shall tell you what 
the vestry has done. I have been strug- 
gling with myself against telling you. 

anna — But tell me now. What has 
the vestry done? 

hol. — It met last evening and voted 
to retire me 

anna — (Starts to speakwith indigna- 
tion, but represses herself.) 

hol. — They said I was too old. 

anna — Too old! 

hol. — It was cowardly of me to shut 
myself up this morning and brood 
over it. 

anna — Not cowardly, uncle ; you 
were too considerate of me. But, uncle, 
I hope they've fixed a decent salary for 
you as rector emeritus. You've given 
them the very best years of your life; 
surely they will show some appreciation 
of that fact. 

hol. — No salary, child, no pension; 
and I'm sorry, Anna, for your sake. It 
is the will of the Master, no doubt; but 
I can't understand it yet. 

anna (almost savagely) — I wish the 
vestry were left in my hands. (Then 
with sudden self-reproach.) Forgive 
me, uncle ; but I haven't the self-control 
you have. Go on, please, and tell me 
more about it. 



HOiv. — It is all in this letter, my 
child. Oh, Anna, I had hoped that you 
should never have cause to grieve 
while I had my health and strength. It 
was when you were getting breakfast 
and I was walking in the garden that 
Henry Marvin came up in his- auto- 
mobile, stopped and wished me good 
morning, at the same time passing me 
this. "Read it at your leisure," he said, 
"and I will call later in the morning 
and talk it over with you." I confess 
that I at first hoped it might be an in- 
crease in salary. I don't know why, 
but I suppose the wish was father to 
the thought. Not until after breakfast 
did I open it. Here it is, my dear; read 
it for yourself. 

anna (reads). 
"Rev. Peter Holton, D. D.— 

"Dear Sir : As senior warden of Trin- 
ity parish I desire to inform you that at 
a meeting of the vestry last evening it 
was voted to request your resignation 
as rector, said resignation to be forth- 
coming at once." 

How cruel ! 

"It is a source of much regret to all 
that such a vote should be necessary, 
and I desire to say in this connection 
that there was no word of criticism of 
your work. All spoke of it in the high- 
est terms of praise." 

Praise ! 

"We believe a younger man could ac- 
complish more, and, further, that the 
duties of rector are far too arduous for 
one of your years. Personally, I wish 
to add my own expression of regret, 
and " (drops note). 

Trum, trum, trum, — the hypocrites ! 

HOiv. — Anna ! Anna. You forget. You 
are a woman. 

anna — Yes, and I wish I were a man. 
(Puts her head in her hands as if she 
were about to cry.) 

hoi,.— Don't, my child, don't. There 
is always the possibility of a small 
country parish or even a Sunday sup- 
ply now and then — that is, if it is never 
known that I am turned out to make 
room for younger blood. Age has the 
wisdom, but youth the power. 

anna — Uncle Peter, I am going to 
ask you one favor, and you must grant 

it. Will you allow me to be present at 
the interview with Mr. Marvin? 

HOL. — Do you think it best, my 
child? It may be very painful. 

anna — Possibly, Mr. Marvin might 
find it more painful than either you 
or I. 

hoi,. — Careful, my darling. It would 
never do to show an unchristian or a 
hostile spirit. Furthermore, nothing is 
to be gained. Mr. Marvin is a firm, 
resolute man of the world. What he 
says he means. He never allows him- 
self to be crossed. No, my child, rage 
or tears would never move him. Not 
that I should allow you to, or you de- 
sire to, thus appeal in my behalf. 

anna — Mr. Marvin, as you know, 
runs Trinity parish with his money. 

HOiv. — Hush, Anna, hush. 

anna — No, uncle, I won't hush, It's 
true. He thinks you're not socially 
equal to Trinity. He wants a young 
man upon whom he may spend his 
money, and maybe marry to his ugly 

HOiv. — Anna, Anna ! 

anna — Mr. Marvin himself was the 
son of a brick mason or something and 
made his money — well, stories differ; 
but he made it, and now he wants to 
lead this town and this parish and 
everything else. Why didn't he show 
his power to manage affairs by con- 
trolling his son? Jack Marvin did ex- 
actly as he pleased. There was some 
horrible scandal, although it never got 
out. But why was he sent away? 

hoi,. — Anna, I beg of you, desist. 
No matter if what you say is true, or 
half true, it is wrong, very wrong, to 
repeat it. It's idle gossip and gossip 

anna — Gossip is detestable — when it 
isn't delicious. 

HOiv. — Marvin holds a high place in 
the community. 

anna — He may keep it. If I were 
Jenkins, and at that a sexton, I wouldn't 
change places with Mr. Marvin. 

HOiv. — Ah, poor Jenkins ! He'll be 
sorry, I'm sure. We've been at Trinity 
for so many years. I don't know what 
I should have done without Jenkins as 
my sexton. 

anna — And I don't know what Jen- 



kins would have done without you. 
He's shooed off the beggars that were 
imposing upon you while you drove 
away another crowd. who were working 
on his sympathies. You both seem to 
feel that it was right for yourself to 
give money to paupers, but wrong for 
the other. Shall I call Jenkins? (Goes 
to window.) He is very likely in the 
garden. Or shall you tell him later? 
(Sudden agitation.) Goodness, uncle, 
here comes a young man. 

hol. — Is there anything extraordi- 
nary in a young man calling here? 

anna — This one is a stranger. 

hol. — And not an ill-looking one, I 
may believe, judging from the pretty 
blushes on someone's cheek. 

anna — Shall I let him in or wait until 
he rings the bell? The door is wide 

hol. — Let me save you any embar- 
rassment. (Holton walks to door down 
left and pushes it back, it opening off 
stage. Meanwhile, Anna stands in 
front of a mirror and arranges one or 
two flowers in her hair.) This way, sir. 

mead (enters left) — Thank you, sir. 
Rev. Mr. Holton? 

hol. — That's my name, sir. This is 
Miss Anna Holton, my niece. 

mead — Delighted to meet Miss Hol- 
ton. My name is Mead — Dudley Mead. 
I'm a reporter for the News-Herald. 

hol and anna — A reporter ! 

mead (noting their pained surprise) 
— Reporter, yes. No horns, no claws, 
no tusks. Just a common or garden 
variety of reporter. 

anna — We weren't expecting you. 

hol. — No, we weren't expecting you. 
Won't you be seated? 

mead — Thank you. Miss Holton, Mr. 
Holton, let me assure you that you 
have nothing to fear from me. I have 
not come to pry into private papers, 
ransack your trunks or ask you search- 
ing questions, writing down carefully 
everything you say in a notebook. I 
am merely on a story for my paper, and 
I think you know that the News-Herald 
hasn't any disposition to roast or mis- 
use innocent people. 

hol. — We read the News-Herald and 
like it. 

mead — Thank you. Now, then, sir, 
let me tell you that all we want is your 
side of the case. I promise to print it 
exactly as you give it to me. 

hol. — My side? 

mead — Yes, Mr. Holton. You see, 
our local correspondent, or, rather, 
your local correspondent, of our paper 
sent in a .tip to the office that there w r as 
some kind of a row, -as he called it, in 
Trinity parish, and my assignment is 
to investigate it. If there isn't any 
truth in it, we do not intend to print 
anything whatever. We are not going 
to make or fake, if you will permit me, a 
story. If there is anything to be writ- 
ten, we'll do our best to treat both sides 
fairly. You don't know me and doubt- 
less you suspect me, but I really am 

anna (under her breath) — And mod- 

mead (overhearing her) — Thank you. 

hol. — There is nothing to conceal, 
Mr. Mead. This morning, much to my 
surprise, I received a notice that the 
vestry desired my resignation. I will 
gladly show you that letter. (Picking 
up letter and passing it to Mead.) 
That's my side of the case, Mr. Mead. 

mead (reading it through) — Signed 
by Henry Marvin. 

hol. — You know him? 

mead — Quite well. I've been hunting 
for him this morning. 

hol. — I need not say, Mr. Mead, that 
the greater amount of publicity given 
my resignation, the less chance I have 
of securing another church or opportu- 
nity to preach a Sunday supply now 
and then. It is enough to be told that 
one is old and useless without it being 
published broadcast in the newspapers. 
Many, no doubt, will understand the 
cause, but to have it verified in the pub- 
lic print is but to emphasize the un- 
happy truth. 

mead — I appreciate that thoroughly, 
Mr. Holton, and I may say that it 
makes me all the more eager to have a 
talk with Mr. Marvin before a line of 
this is printed. As it stands now, we 
have, or think we have, an exclusive. 
If, however, any other reporter should 
show up, can you say that I have 

Drawn by D. S.Ross 

Why can't i share, at least, some oe the burden " 



agreed to give it to all the papers and 
for them to see me? In this way your 
interests will be best protected. Trust 
me, won't you ? Both of you ? 

hol. — I do. 

anna — And I. 

mead — You're very kind. If only I 
could get hold of Mr. Marvin. 

anna — You've only another instant 
to wait, for I hear the Marvin auto. 
(Going to window.) Yes, here he comes. 

hod. — I'll admit him. Excuse me, 
Mr. Mead. (Goes out door left.) 

mead — It's my opinion, Miss Holton, 
that your uncle is receiving very 
shabby treatment. I'm going to tell 
Mr. Marvin so, whether he likes it or 

anna — Are you? Do you dare? I 
wish that I might. I wanted to, very 
much, but Uncle Peter wouldn't let me. 

Marvin and Holton are heard talking 
off the stage. 

mead — I am not an intentional eaves- 
dropper, Miss Holton, but it seems that 
your uncle and Mr. Marvin are talking 
over a real estate transaction. Just 
what does that mean? 

anna — That Mr. Marvin is at uncle 
again to sell this property. You see, it 
doesn't belong to the parish corpora- 
tion, but to my uncle. If you noticed, 
the location is rather attractive, and it 
may appeal to Mr. Marvin as a possible 
home for his daughter when she mar- 

mead — Is it in the market? 

anna — No, indeed. (Then with seri- 
ous thought.) It wasn't yesterday, but 
it may be to-morrow. 

mead — I shouldn't worry about that, 
Miss Holton. (Pausing.) What a cosey 
place for two — I mean three. That is — 
I beg pardon, Miss Holton — you'll for- 
give me, won't you? I didn't mean, 

anna — I have often heard of the fer- 
tile imaginations of newspaper men; 
now I'm quite sure it's true. You'll ex- 
cuse me if I take a short walk in the 
garden. The truth of it is I am not the 
least anxious to see Mr. Marvin. 

mead — But you'll come back? 

anna — Very soon ; after I have wres- 
tled with and thrown my temper. I 

hope you will enjoy your interview. 
(Exit right.) 

mead (looking after her) — Not so 
much as if you were to remain. Jove, 
but there's a pretty girl. I wonder how 
her uncle would like to have me in his 
congregation ! 

Marvin and Holton enter left. 

mar. — What a mighty pretty place 
this is, Holton. (Seeing Mead.) Some 
one here. (To Mead.) Good morning, 
sir; I'm afraid I haven't had the pleas- 
ure of meeting Mr. Mr. — er — (offering 
to shake hands with Mead.) 

mead — Mead of the News-Herald. 
(The two shake hands.) 

mar. — Oh, yes, I know you now. 

mead — You ought to; I've been try- 
ing to interview you for several hours. 

mar. — Interview me? I can't see 
what business you could have with me. 

mead — Mr. Holton was' much sur- 
prised to see me, too. I explained to 
him, as I do to you, that we heard in 
the News-Herald office that there was a 
row in Trinity parish and we wanted 
to get the facts. 

mar. — A row? Ridiculous! And fur- 
thermore, whatever Trinity parish may 
do cannot and does not concern the 

mead — I'm quite satisfied there isn't 
any row, Mr. Marvin, but I don't agree 
with you as to Trinity's freedom from 
obligations to the newspapers. When- 
ever there is a lecture or a bazaar, a 
special musical program on Sunday, 
not to mention the celebration of some 
important church anniversary, it is al- 
ways thought imperative by the church 
officers and members that the news- 
papers chronicle the event. In fact, it 
is expected that they should be liberal 
with their space. And they usually are. 
But when some news comes up, some 
happening of live interest, the news- 
papers are promptly told to mind their 
own business. 

hod. — There need be no discussion, 
gentlemen. I have told Mr. Mead of 
the action of the wardens and vestry. 
He will, I am sure, print nothing sen- 
sational or untrue — merely the facts. 

mar. (with sudden anger) — You can- 
not print my letter. You have no right 



to. Holton had no business to give it 
to you. 

mead — He didn't give it to me and 
I'm not going to print it, Mr. Marvin. 

hol.— I wish to assume the blame, 
gentlemen, for whatever misunder- 
standing there may be. 

mar. — Holton, you should be more 
careful ; you can't trust these reporters. 

hol. — I have yet to find one of them 
I could not trust. 

mead — Thank you, Mr. Holton. 

anna (enters from right) — Pardon 
me, but, Uncle Peter, Jenkins has heard 
that something has happened. It seems 
to have fallen upon him like a blow. 
Won't you go to him and tell — if only 
for a minute. Mr. Mead and Mr. Mar- 
vin will excuse you long enough for 
that. Come; I'll help you break the 
news to him. 

hol. — Perhaps I had better; you'll 
pardon me, gentlemen. 

mar. — Not at all; indulge yourself in 
a bit of sentiment. But don't be too 
long; I'm in a hurry. 

hol. — Very well. 

Hol. and Anna exeunt right. 

mead — I'm glad we're alone for a 
minute, Mr. Marvin. 

mar. — See here, young man, I believe 
you have an idea that you can bulldoze 

mead — No, Mr. Marvin ; you're 
wrong. I don't follow the same tactics 
as you; I have a straight line of at- 

mar. — I guess I'm not far off when I 
say that you are going to tell me my 
business, and say I had no right to in- 
vite Holton to resign. Now, look here, 
Mead. You know Holton is all right 
and that I'd be the last man to do him 
an injury. If you insist upon printing 
the letter, you'll make it look as if we 
had turned Holton out, when, as a mat- 
ter of fact, we've kept him here for 
years for charity. You know what the 
people want in the churches to-day; 
they don't want an old fossil for a 
preacher when they can get a young 
and vigorous man for the place. 

mead — Indeed. I had always under- 
stood that churches stand for humanity 
and Christianity. 

mar. — Well, business is one thing 
and charity is another. How is a 
church to grow with an old fuddy- 
duddy in charge of it? 

mead — Of course, if you're running 
an amusement enterprise, a sort of 
sanctified picture show for Sunday 
mornings and evenings, you've got to 
consider those things. If, on the other 
hand, you are preaching the gospel of 
the Nazarene, or at least trying to, it's 
not the same. I know clergymen, old 
ones, whose faces shine with what I be- 
lieve to be the reflection of divine glory. 
I think Mr. Holton is one of them. 
When a man's old he isn't worth much 
according to the standard that you 
have set up, Mr. Marvin; but when a 
man, whether he's been a minister or a 
laborer, or whatever his calling — when 
that man has shown that he has be- 
come worn out in his work for some- 
body else, is that the time to turn him 
out? You forget that Mr. Holton and 
many men like him have prayed at the 
bedside of a young mother; have chris- 
tened that child ; have married it, and 
maybe buried it. 

At any rate, they have shared in the 
sorrows and joys of many, many fami- 
lies. They have gone out at night, at the 
risk of their health, to minister to the 
poor and sick; they have denied them- 
selves that they might give to missions. 
And what is the reward of this sacri- 
fice? The poorhouse? 

mar. — You're young ; too boyish and 
sentimental. You don't understand. 

mead — Mr.' Marvin, do you remem- 
ber the first time we met? 

mar. — Can't say I do, exactly. 

mead — It was two .years ago last 

mar. — Was it? 

mead — Yes. You were in the News- 
Herald office — in the city editor's room. 
You remember that you were there to 
keep out a story about your son? 

mar. — My son? What has that to do 
with it? 

mead — You had found out that I had 
dug up a first-page story about the 
boy's pranks that summer; how he had 
forged your name to $30,000 worth of 
"checks ; had broken off his engagement 



with a Philadelphia young woman; 
was chasing chorus girls, and was then 
about to be disowned or banished by 
you? Pretty hot yarn, as I recall it. 

mar. — I see through you now ; you 
want to blackmail me. 

mead (indignantly) — Mr. Marvin, 
you know that's a lie. You remember 
you tried the same bluff when you 
asked to have the story suppressed. 
You said you were president of this, 
director of that and so on, didn't you?" 

And the city editor told you the 
News-Herald didn't give a damn for you 
or your money, didn't he? Well, that 
goes double now. 

mar. — What do you want, then? 

mead — I want nothing except to 
have this story of Trinity parish 
straightened out. 

mar. — What are you going to do? 

mead — I? Nothing; you're going to 
do it. 

MAR. 1 ? 

mead — Mr. Marvin, the plea upon 
which you succeeded in getting the 
News-Herald to suppress that story 
about your son, Jack Marvin, was char- 
ity — pure charity. You said, after you 
had found that bullying wouldn't work, 
that it would kill his mother, who was 
then very ill ; that it meant the ruina- 
tion of your daughter's future and your 
son's future, and, in a measure, your 
own. That's what you said, wasn't it? 
You pointed out where there is too lit- 
tle good done in this great, sordid, 
commercial world, didn't you? You 
thought the milk of human kindness 
should flow more freely from the 
breasts of twentieth-century men and 
women, didn't you? I remember that 
you really made an impression. We 
took you seriously. 

mar. — Stop, Mead, stop. You've made 
out your case. I've come pretty near 
to your way of thinking in the last two 
minutes. I'm not as bad as you would 
have me, but I. will agree that I have 
been thoughtless. 

mead — I haven't wished to rub it in, 
Marvin, but when those things are 
brought home they are more clearly 

mar. — Mead, I promise you this: I'll 

see what done. In fact, I'll take 
the initiative. But, 'sh, here come the 

Anna and Hoi. (enter left). Meade 
sits at desk and starts writing. Marvin 
goes up to Anna and Holton. 

mar. — Jenkins is all right, I hope? 

hoi,. — Pie seems to think that my go- 
ing means that he must also leave. I 
assured him that such is not the case. 
It isn't, is it, Mr. Marvin? 

mar. — Why, no; of course not; we'll 
make some provision for him. 

HOiy. — Jenkins is very vigorous for 
one of his years ; very vigorous. Fur- 
ther than that, he would be invaluable 
to my successor, to whom he can teach 
the ropes, so to speak. 

mar. — We won't call it settled yet. 
The fact is the parish hasn't heard 
much about it yet. No meeting of the 
corporation has been called and there's 
really nothing definite. Moreover, there 
may be something come up which ne- 
cessitates some little change. The fact 
is ■ 

mead (who has just stopped writing 
and blotted the paper) — Excuse me, 
Mr. Marvin; your signature, please. 

mar. — My signature? Oh, yes. (Signs 
and shows a second later that he has 
written his name without thinking.) 
What is this, eh? 

mead (without answering Marvin) — 
Miss Plolton, Mr. Holton, I must go 
back to the city. I believe there is a 
train in a very few minutes. If you 
should like to hear what my story in 
substance will be, just listen to this 
signed statement of Mr. Marvin. He 
has given it to me to be published, with 
some slight elaboration, in the News- 
Herald. Here it is. (Reading.) 

"Rev. Peter Holton, rector of Trinity 
Episcopal Church in the suburban town 
of Islington, is, after twenty-five years' 
pastorate, to be made rector emeritus, 
with full salary. His active duties will 
terminate this month, after which he 
and his niece, Miss Anna Holton, are 
to make an extended European trip, 
lasting a year or more. This statement 
is made on the authority of Henry 
Marvin, the well-known financier and 
philanthropist, who is senior warden of 



Trinity parish and a large contributor 
to its support." 

That's right, Mr. Marvin; isn't it? 

mar. — Er — er — yes — yes — that's 
right, quite right. 

hol. — Marvin, I thank you from the 
bottom of my heart. Your kindness 
overwhelms me. 

anna — Thank you, Mr. Marvin ; you 
are so good. 

mar. — Not at all, not at all. It's a 
very small thing, after all, and I was 
glad to do it — very glad to do it. 

hol. (turning to Mead) — You see 
what a thoughtful friend I have in Mr. 

m^ad (cordially and with no trace of 
sarcasm) — Mr. Marvin knows what I 
think of him. 

mar. — Yes, yes, thank you. I must 
be going now. I've got to send word 
to the other members of the vestry. 

hol.— If you must leave us, Marvin, 
I'll walk along with you; at least as 
far as your automobile. 

mar. — First rate ; come ahead. Good 
day, Miss Holton ; good day, Mr. Mead. 
Come, Holton. 

hol. — Excuse me just a moment, Mr. 
Mead. (Exeunt Marvin and Holton.) 

anna— I can scarcely believe it true. 

mead — No doubt of it, Miss Holton. 
. anna — I hope I am not ungrateful, 
but I cannot grasp the change in Mr. 


anna — Had you ever met him before? 

mead — Yes ; two years ago, when his 
— when he came into our office on busi- 

anna — Indeed ! Some day I hope to 
hear more of your relations with Mr. 
Marvin ; that is, if you'll call again, Mr. 
Mead, won't you? 

mead — Yes, thank you. (Picking up 
his hat.) And now for the city. I hope 

you feel that the man who solved the 
difficult problem for your uncle is not 
such a bad fellow, after all. 

anna — I have a great mind to hug 

mead (looking off in direction of 
Marvin) — Hurry up ; he hasn't gone 

anna — I can't do that, but I'll give 
him a rose instead. (Hands Mead a 

mead (gradually realizing the young 
woman's attitude toward him) — Miss 
Holton, do you mean me? 

(Locomotive whistle heard off.) 

anna — There's your train. You'll 
have to run; there isn't another until 

mead — Good-bye, Miss Holton. 

hol. (enters left) — What, leaving us? 

mead — Yes, Mr. Holton. Sorry, but 
I must run. (Shaking hands with Hol. 
and Anna.) Good-bye. (Exit Mead 

anna (goes to window and looks 
after Mead). 

hol. (sits in armchair down center) 
— A great 'blessing has come to us, my 
child; hasn't it? 

anna (she is so occupied she does not 

hol. — Anna. (No answer.) Anna! 

anna — Yes, uncle. 

hol. — I was saying a great blessing 
had come to us. 

anna (still looking out of the win- 
dow) — Yes ; isn't he a dear. 

hol. — A dear? Your attitude has 
changed. I'm glad of it; I always 
thought you misjudged Mr. Marvin. 

anna (almost screaming her surprise) 
— Mr. Marvin a dear? (Quickly recov- 
ering herself.) Oh, yes, of course. 
(Still at window, but turning to audi- 
ence with a roguish smile.) Dear Mr. 
Marvin. • 


Feeding " Oi<d Bob," back for the Eourth year 

A Born Naturalist and His Work 


IN freshness, in lively interest and in 
originality nothing equals a child." 
These are the words of Dr. Clif- 
ton F. Hodge, professor of biology in 
Clark University, and the key to his 
career. It was by watching children 
killing frogs in a Worcester pond, 
twelve years ago, and thinking out a 
plan to win them from their cruelty 
and folly, that he was led to correlate 
nature study and life. The insight to 
child nature was deepened, and the fact 
that original research is the breath of 
its mental life confirmed by his experi- 
ence with his own children. Roland, 
one year old, planting a peach tree, and 
four years later proudly harvesting a 
peck of fruit from its goodly boughs, 
showed him the value of individual 
ownership as an incentive. Mazie, with 
Roland, feeding her pet robin and ut- 
tering this oracular sentence, "The most 
important thing for a child to learn 

about birds is how to raise meal- 
worms," set him to devising ways and 
means of interesting other children in 
the care and study of living things. 

The outcome is a series of books — a 
nature triology, the fundamental pur- 
pose of which is to unite home and 
school in a common interest by a bond 
of utility and joy. The aim is "charac- 
ter, will to do good, power to create 
happiness"; the method, the natural 
one — i. e., not being told, but finding 
out for one's self. Thus, to quote Dr. 
Hodge : 

"A little girl of eight years has a pair 
of pet bobwhites. She is anxious for 
them to rear a brood and often asks, 
'Why don't they lay some eggs?' She 
is told, July 2, that if she would feed the 
hen more insects it would probably be- 
gin to lay; and she was asked to see if 
she could not find out how many rose- 
slugs the bird would eat in a day. 



"The child entered into the experi- 
ment with great glee, and, interesting 
to note, developed her own method at 
the outset, which was to count the slugs 
as she caught them in a tumbler, and 
when she had one hundred she wrote 
it down on a paper and emptied the 
tumbler before her hungry pet, waited 
until they were all eaten, and then ran 
to the garden for another hundred. 
Here are two definite questions in dy- 
namic biology: How many rose-slugs 
will a quail eat in a day? If she has 
all the insects she wants, will she pro- 

duce eggs? The child gains answers to 
both. At night she shows us her rec- 
ord — 1286 rose-slugs eaten in a day. 
Fourth of July morning she is wild 
with delight on finding the first tgg in 
the nest. 

"The example illustrates two points, 
— a living thing as a force in nature 
and the child learning by the active 
method of research. Can the child ever 
forget the day and the lesson? Multi- 
ply now the work of a single bird by 
the number in a species, or by the num- 
ber we might have in the species, and 




Going chestnutting 

we find ourselves in the presence of 
powers and forces which could trans- 
form the face of the earth, the human 
values of which are beyond computa- 
tion. Compared with these values, all 
our Cripple Creeks and Klondikes are 
but the small change of the hour. I 
am wont to estimate that if, as a people, 
we could learn the biology of this one 
bird and be decent and civilized, enough 
to give the species a chance to do its 
work in nature, it would save us in in- 
sect damage alone $500,000,000 a year. 
In weed-seed destruction, food value of 
surplus and sport, it might be worth 
as much more. But no, instead of learn- 
ing and utilizing our living resources, 
we must senselessly exterminate them." 
Mr. Hodge has instituted a better 
way. For years, while carrying on pro- 
fessional pursuits, he has taken recrea- 
tion by experimenting with bobwhites 
and ruffled grouse, domesticating both 
on his own premises, with the end in 
view of adding them finally to the na- 
tional list of domestic fowl. For four 

hundred years not a single species has 
been added — a fact which magnifies the 
importance of these experiments. The 
taming of the young is easily accom- 
plished. Before they are fairly out of 
the shell they nestle in the hand. 

By kindness and appeal to appetite 
they are wholly tamed. Witness the 
partridge chestnutting on Dr. Hodge's 
knee, and the handsome cock deferring 
his courtship for a tidbit from Mazie's 

Both bird and child are in training 
by the natural method. Study it fur- 
ther. Note a partridge chick just out 
in the world. "It tries hundreds, if not 
thousands, of experiments : pecks at all 
sorts of conspicuous objects; pecks at 
the eye of a fellow, gets no satisfaction ; 
pecks at a dewdrop, learns how water 
tastes ; pecks at its own toes and tips 
itself over; at its fellows' toes and tips 
them over; is served likewise in its 
turn ; learns that toes are not food. It 
learns that some things taste good and 
other things bad, and by'the end of the 
day has solved the fundamental food 
problems of the species." 

How analogous this to the growth by 
inquiry of the young child. To prolong 
this period of research (why should it 
ever cease?), and to save the child from 
becoming a parasitic word-eater, is the 
problem now engaging Dr. Hodge. 
Not long ago he asked Sir William 
Macdonald, now devoting his time and 
his millions to elementary rural scien- 
tific education, why he had turned to it 
from university research. His eyes 
twinkled as he replied : "The younger 
the better; the younger the better. If 
science is worth anything, the younger 
we teach it the better. ... I did 
begin with science in the university, 
and I have no fault to find with that; 
but I soon realized that if we made 
science mean anything much to the 
whole people, we must begin with the 
boys and girls." 

The foundation work of Dr. Hodge 
is so vital, so essentially a growth, that 
there is no break between the child and 
the youth, the youth and the adult. By 
rejecting all inquiries that do not re- 
late to human welfare, all studies that 



have no equivalent in human values, he 
keeps the interest and the mind alert 
for continuous discovery. This gives 
no narrow range of inquiry. Dr. Hodge 
is himself a veritable octopus in his 
grasp of subjects for research. "You 
would not spend your life, then, upon 
a single bug?" inquired a friend. "Not 
unless it were the bug that affected hu- 
manity," was his reply. 

The mosquito comes so near to such 
distinction that Dr. Hodge promotes 
the study of its life history. Under his 
leadership a public school in Worcester 
aroused the community to rid the city 
of countless pests breeding in the neg- 
lected pools of Beaver Brook. At the 
moment when the first great brood of 
wrigglers was about to emerge, five 
hundred children descended upon them 
with oil cans, and performed a feat sur- 
passing that of the magicians of Egypt. 
Such was the enthusiasm generated by 
this dynamic method, in both children 
and parents, that it resulted in a valu- 
able addition to the park waters of the 

In a friendly letter, Dr. Hodge writes : 
"I want this kind of work — nature 
study, civic biology — to go, go, go ! to 
organize us into a 'paradise people/ and 
give us more of a heaven on earth than 
we can dream of. I simply see visions 
and dream dreams of ideal homes and 
ideal towns, ideal health and ideal edu- 
cation, by day and night, and keep peg- 
ging away; but my achievements com- 
pared with my vision, — 'nascitur ridicu- 
lus mils' " (his estimate, not ours). 

Should Dr. Hodge add one useful 
species to the nation's domestic wealth, 
who could compute its value? But he 
aims to add not only quail and grouse, 
but the toad also — that good genius of 
our garden, already at our doorstep on 
.its way to domestication. No life study 
is more fascinating to children than the 
uncommon one of the common toad. 
The tadpole stage throws them into 
uproarious glee. "The tadpoles are 
done," cried one such group ; now to 
feed them gnats, red spiders, plant lice! 
And the old toad — what a philanthro- 
pist he is, refusing nothing insectivor- 

A baker's dozen oe young partridges 



ous, from mosquitoes to June bugs ! 
The child whose toad clears his tene- 
ment room of cockroaches in a single 
night will not be likely to stone his use- 
ful partner. Dr. Hodge is on the right 
road when he starts at the school-room. 
"Nature and Life," his book for pri- 
mary and grammar grades, throbs with 
holy purpose to make ours a better 
world. It begins with a definition that, 
if accepted, will 
r e v o 1 u t i onize 
teaching: "Nature 
study is learning 
those things in na- 
ture that are best 
worth knowing, to 
the end of d o i n g 
those things that 
make life most 
worth the living." 

Are laws inade- 
q u a t e to protect 
our diminishing 
song-birds, our 
vanishing game ? 
"Whynot try pub- 
lic education?", is 
his demand. 

Set the school 
children to watch- 
ing the sky for a 
flock of passenger 
pigeons, and, when 
one is found, sur- 
rounding it with a 
living wall of ab- 
solute protection. 
Dr. Hodge was 
reared on a Wis- 
consin prairie, and 
in boyhood days often heard the swish 
of the wild pigeon's wing as it flew 
over. His joy who can measure when 
within a year he heard again that sound 
on his own hilltop? So confident is he 
that the passenger pigeon is not utterly 
extinct that he is determined to track 
the survivors. To restore this beauti- 

ful and valuable species, once numbered 
by the billion, to this continent were 
no small service to render a nation. 
Who will help Dr. Hodge to run it 
down? But there must be no shooting, 
even for the purpose of identification. 
"Shoot a passenger pigeon!" he indig- 
nantly responded to the suggestion. 

Here is a professor of biology who 
deals with living 
makes science a 
joyous land of dis- 
covery ; takes a 1 1 
outdoors f o r h i s 
laboratory. The 
air blows through 
all that he says 
and does. 

The results are 
vital and enrich- 
ing. His students 
become in turn 
original investiga- 
tors. One of them 
collaborates with 
Dr. Hodge in a 
book now in press. 
One takes for 
the subject of her 
M. A. thesis, "The 
Relation of the 
Cat to the Bird," 
and collects world- 
wide data. An- 
other studies ex- 
perimentally "The 
Cat as a Carrier of 
Disease Germs." 
Another is test- 
ing the effect of a low percentage of 
alcohol upon fowl — the fecundity of 
eggs and the vigor of chicks. One is 
turning her farm into a bird sanct- 

Many are collecting food data. All 
are adding something to the total of 
human welfare. 

Partridge drumming 

The Maritime Provinces— III. 



ROM this spotless town to Chat- 
ham is forty miles. The road 
lies through a vast forest and 
J runs as straight- as if drawn by a 
rule. It has been gradually im- 
proved by the counties until it is very 
fair. For miles we raced along, meet- 
ing no other vehicle. At length in 
the distance a black speck was seen 
approaching. It was an automobile — 
the first we had met for days. We 
stopped out of mutual interest and curi- 
osity in each other. The party was 
from Amherst, and were returning 
from a shooting trip in the Miramichi 
county. They gave us much interesting 
information, and at our replies as to 
the weight of our car, its horse-power 
and how far we had come, a murmur of 
surprise rippled among them. 

We had covered about thirty of the 
forty miles to Chatham when a team 
was encountered. The native held up 
his hand when we were several hun- 
dred yards away, the usual sign for us 
to stop; a second man jumped down 
and threw a blanket over the horse's 
head. We then tried to pass, but in do- 
ing so slid off the road into a ditch, and 
the, two right wheels sank in soft clay 
up to the hubs. In vain did we all get 
out and push, but the wheels only spun 
around, covering us from head to foot 
with mud, and then settled back deeper, 
deeper than ever. In vain did we try 
to jack the car up and build a founda- 
tion of rock under it. At last we had 
to send the farmer four miles to his 
barn for a block and tackle, with which 
the car was pulled back on the road. It 
was dark when we reached Chatham, 

We had covered the one hundred and 
thirty miles, in spite of our many de- 
lays, over roads which were an awful 
and we were dog-tired, hungry and cross. 

strain on the springs, frame and tires, 
to say nothing of ourselves ; but at last 
we were at the Miramichi River and 
the Gulf of St. Lawrence, and felt re- 
lieved that we were not to push farther 
north in the car, as the roads had con- 
stantly grown rougher, and beyond 
Chatham are almost too much for the 
strongest and most powerful cars. 

Chatham is the principal town in the 
country known as Miramichi, which 
covers a large area and embraces great 
forests. Both Chatham and Newcastle 
are on the banks of the Miramichi 
River, near its mouth. Saw mills and 
pulp mills are frequent between the 
two towns, and there are several 
smaller towns and villages, all owing 
their existence to the timber industry. 

It is to these towns that hunters 
from different parts of Europe and 
America start into the woods. The 
fame of northern New Brunswick as a 
hunting preserve is generally ackowl- 
edged. The territory is alive with 
moose, caribou, deer and bear, while 
the streams and lakes are filled with 
bass, trout and salmon. 

It is against the law to carry a gun 
in the woods between September fif- 
teenth and November thirtieth with- 
out first obtaining a license from the 
Crown Lands office at Fredericton or 
a county game warden. These licenses 
cost fifty dollars and give the holder 
right to kill one bull moose, one bull 
caribou and two deer. 

Many parties enter the woods by go- 
ing up the Miramichi as far as it is 
navigable, then on foot twenty to 
thirty miles to a camp, each guide hav- 
ing a particular territory he is familiar 
with. Other parties drive from Chat- 
ham or the several other towns and 
villages where guides and requisite 




supplies are secured, over the corduroy 
roads as far as it is possible, and then 
penetrate on foot to the deeper re- 
cesses of the forests by trails cut 
through the wilderness, over which no 
horse could travel. 

Among the interesting stories told 
us of this country, that of the great fire 
of 1825 stands out. The country for 
hundreds of miles was laid bare, and 
human beings and wild animals sought 
refuge in the Miramichi River. It was 
October, the crops were harvested for 

ious to get back to the city as he was 
to get into the woods. 

It was with pleasant memories that 
we left Chatham on a Friday morning 
at exactly 7 :30 o'clock with determina- 
tion to get as far back to civilization 
during the day as it was possible. It 
was a beautiful morning, the sun 
shone, the cold, crisp, fresh air sang in 
our ears, making our fur coats very 
comfortable. We bowled along, bowing 
and smiling at the natives by the road- 
side. Everything seemed just right; 


the winter, and the suffering and loss 
of life were great. 

Most parties are in the woods from 
two to three weeks. At first the free 
and easy life appeals to the city man; 
the clear, sharp air, the great stillness, 
the wildness of everything, sends him 
into ecstasy; but after a week or two 
he commences to miss the morning 
paper, wants his mail and thinks of 
business or wonders how the market 
is, and by the third week he is as anx- 

the car ran as if it had the strength of 
a giant; the country seemed to unfold 
like a panorama. It was all too fine 
to last. All at once we turned a bend 
and came upon a lumber truck. It was 
empty and the driver was seated on 
the connecting pole between the two 
pairs of wheels. We were upon the 
team before we knew it, but by quick 
work cleared it. As we came level with 
the horses they bolted, the lumberman 
who was driving, after balancing him- 




self for a few rods, was thrown vio- 
lently to the ground, and one of the 
rear wheels went over his chest. He 
lay a moment or two stunned with the 
shock, while the horses galloped away, 
dragging after them the swaying cart; 
then, getting up, pale with fright and 
anger, he gave us an awful look, ges- 
ticulating violently, and ran after his 
fast-disappearing team. We waited a 
few moments, but as there was noth- 
ing we could do we moved along. Oc- 
casionally we found good stretches of 
road and let her out to forty-five. 

We stopped for a few moments at 
St. Louis. Hardly a person whom we 
met in this quaint French town could 
understand English. The Catholic 
Church was enormous, and a crucifix 
twenty-five feet high stands in the 
road as you enter the town. These rep- 
resentations of Christ on the cross ap- 
pear at intervals throughout the 

After Kingston was passed we lost 
our way. We had gone some distance 

when the road became grass-grown 
and rutty and we were obliged to run 
slowly. John stated that he knew we 
were right, so on we pushed. Deeper 
and deeper the wheels sank in the ruts. 
We trusted John and he trusted the 
machine to pull us through. After sev- 
eral miles we rounded a curve and en- 
countered a pair of bars. Down they 
came and on we went, and at length 
brought up on a great, flat marsh, 
miles from anywhere. It was not so 
easy to return, and twice did all hands 
have to help to get the car out of a 
hole in which it had sunk. We bore to 
the left at the first cross-road, and, 
after travelling for miles through the 
wildest of country over the rough 
wood roads, where no other automo- 
bile had probably ever been, we 
reached the town of Galloway. Other 
than a puncture and a runaway horse, 
the run to Shediac was uneventful. 

We had covered the ninety-two 
miles in six hours. At two thirty we 
were on the road to Moncton, which 



is good most of the way. The town is 
approached from a hill, and on this 
particular afternoon was being visited 
by a heavy shower. The view pre- 
sented a peculiar and grand sight. All 
about the sun shone upon the fields, 
but in Moncton we could see it was 
raining, as they say, "cats and dogs." 
We got our rain coats, but the storm 
was over when we entered the town. 

Moncton is an interesting place for 
many reasons. It has about twelve 
thousand population, being the second 
largest city in New Brunswick, and is 
growing very rapidly. The great 
workshops of the Intercolonial Rail- 
way have an important bearing on the 
prosperity of the city. It seemed to 
us an especially bright and imposing 
place, partly due, no doubt, to our hav- 
ing been so long in the woods. 

Our first questions were: "When 
will the bore come in?" It was due, 
we found, in twenty minutes, thus sav-* 
ing us hours of waiting, as no one 
would think of leaving Moncton with- 
out first having seen it, any more than 

they would pass through Niagara and 
not see the falls, or miss the pyramids 
if they were in Egypt. 

It is a bit difficult to accurately de- 
scribe the bore to those who have not 
seen it. It is, briefly, a wall or wave 
of water which rushes up the Petitco- 
diac River past the city twice each 
twenty-four hours. It varies in height 
from three to ten feet, and its approach 
can be heard miles away. At low tide 
the salt water leaves the river, and it 
becomes nothing but a narrow stream 
or channel of fresh water in the centre 
of a valley formed by sloping banks 
of terra-cotta colored mud, which ex- 
tend a long distance on either side. 
When the tide returns the empty river 
is filled in six hours, or about one foot 
of rise a minute. The rush is often at 
eight to ten miles an hour. One min- 
ute you have before you a broad, deep 
valley, with boats dry-docked, as it 
were; a few moments later a majestic 
river, a mile across, with ships floating 
in forty-five to fifty feet depth of 
water at high tide. 

Prosperous and attractive Farms are everywhere to be seen 



The explanation of the tidal phenom- 
enon lies in the fact that the Atlantic 
tides move along- the New England 
coast, and, meeting the peninsula of 
Nova Scotia, are forced into the upper 
and narrow part of the Bay of Fundy, 
causing the rapid rise and great height. 
It thus enters the Petitcodiac River 
twenty-five miles below Moncton, roll- 
ing inward in a tidal wave. 

We ran the machine out onto a 
wharf, a look over the edge of which 
made us dizzy; here and there lay a 
boat on dry land. All at once there was 
a kind of rumble in the distance, as if 

would be fair, but the sun sank behind 
a bank of treacherous-looking clouds. 
The effect was fine; the black clouds 
looked as if they were lined with gold, 
and formed the shapes of great, black 
sea gulls. 

It was nearly dark when we reached 
Petitcodiac, but as we approached it 
stood out strikingly in the valley and 
looked an imposing town, but turned 
out to be an ordinary and dirty village 
with a very poor inn. Partly from this 
reason, and partly because we looked 
for rain the next day, we decided to run 
to Sussex in the evening. Accordingly, 

A heavy car and" New Brunswick roads are a hard test on tires 

of a railway train. The noise grew 
louder and louder, and then we could 
see a great white wall around a bend 
in the river, and almost before we could 
believe our eyes, went rushing past. 

We had made over one hundred 
miles during the day and were at last 
in a real live city, with a good show 
advertised; but, as one of the party 
wished to catch the Boston boat at St. 
John on Saturday night, we pushed on 
to Petitcodiac. 

The shower had cleared and a rain- 
bow gave us hopes that the morrow 

after dinner we made the start. The 
most direct road, we learned, was un- 
safe. Only ten days before an auto had 
attempted to go over it and was stuck 
in the mud, we were told. We, there- 
fore, planned to follow the Pollet River, 
then over the mountains and up the 
iPenobsquis Valley. It was rather a 
foolhardy trip to take at night, but the 
thought of being hung up in Petitco- 
diac by a storm drove us to it. Every- 
thing went smoothly for a while, our 
great acetylenes glaring ahead giving 
us ample warning, and at times John 



found stretches where he could let her 
out to twenty. After running for miles 
without seeing a house or meeting any 
pedestrians we came upon a party of 
three returning from Friday night 
meeting and learned we were miles out 
of our way. We were near Elgin Cor- 
ner, and should have left the river at 
Pollet River Mills and gone up through 
the Notch. Back we went, and up we 
climbed steep, narrow roads, which 
seemed to be strapped on the side of 
the hills. It was a wonderfully fearful 
sensation to be motoring through this 
notch by moonlight. Hundreds of feet 

several sheep. We could not stop; it 
was impossible to turn to the right, 
while three feet to the left meant a 
drop of one hundred feet and sure 
death. There was one instant made up 
of lightning impressions and it was 
all over. We struck the sheep and 
brought up against a tree on the very 
edge of the road. For a moment we sat 
perfectly still, our very toes turned up. 
Those in back did not know what we 
had struck. As we turned the curve, 
all we could see of the sheep were their 
eyes, which in the darkness looked 
like so many electric lights ; and but 



below lay a beautiful valley, through 
which flowed the Penobsquis River, 
flashing diamonds beneath the moonlit 
heavens. There were times with but a 
few inches between us and eternity. 
The road was good, but the thickening 
clouds indicated rain, which would 
mean a stop at the first house, as the 
most adventurous would not attempt 
to motor over these roads if wet. We 
were pretty well through the notch; 
the moon was hidden behind a cloud, 
and our lamps shut the night down 
upon us in inky blackness, when sud- 
denly, circling a curve, we came upon 

for our lights shining on them for an 
instant as we struck, it would be a 
mystery, as they disappeared over the 
edge; and by the time we had come to 
realize we were not mangled corpses, 
were out of sight, starting in their 
stampede a sort of landslide which 
continued to rumble beneath us for 
some minutes. 

The balance of our run to Sussex was 
uneventful, with the exception of the 
rear wheels breaking through a culvert 
with no damage, and the encounter of 
an occasional polecat. These fetid ani- 
mals would run ahead of us in the road, 



A typical French-Canadian viixA.GE street 

nd in one case it took a well-directed 
hot from a Smith & Wesson to clear 
he way. 

After level ground was again reached 

jive encountered several "electric light 

plants," as we named the herds of 

heep. Twice it started in to rain, and 

he last few miles were wet and slip- 

>ery. We reached Sussex at midnight, 

having been on the road since sunrise 
that morning and covered nearly two 
hundred miles. We woke the landlord 
up at the Depot House and secured a 
place to sleep; the car, however, we 
had to leave outside. We had not been 
in the hotel five minutes when it came 
on to rain again — a perfect deluge this 
time. A little later some one was heard 



tampering with the machine, which 
was in the rear of the building, under 
our windows. The supposed thief was 
promptly covered with a revolver and 
ordered to throw up his hands. We 
were rather disappointed when it 
proved to be John, who had found shel- 
ter for the car under the carriage sheds 
at the meeting house. 

True to our expectations, it was rain- 
ing hard the next morning, but in spite 
of the inclemency of the weather, with 
the top and sides up, we set forth, de- 
termined to reach St. John on sched- 
uled time, but soon we were saying 
"Never again for us." The roads were 
inches deep with mud, and in spite of 
the top, glass shield and our raincoats 
the wet somehow beat through. We 
had five chains on each tire, but we 
skidded from side to side, and an eight- 
mile gait was the best we could make. 
About half-way we had a blow-out, and 
had to patch the shoe with a piece of 
leather belting. We then put in the 
only remaining inner tube. We had 
many exciting incidents and one or two 
narrow escapes from serious smash- 
ups, but after our hair-raising trip of 
the night before they seemed quite 

W T e entered St. John, or "Singent," 
as the natives seemed to pronounce it, 
on a fine road overlooking Kennebe- 
casis Bay and through Riverside. The 
latter is the aristocratic suburb of St. 
John, and even on this wet and dismal 
day it looked attractive. 

The last two miles into the city was 
a macadam road, and we gave the na- 
tives a close and realistic imitation of 
a Vanderbilt cup race. By two o'clock 
we had registered at the Royal Hotel, 
cleaned up and were ready for lunch, 
but first telegraphed to Boston for new 

We were all familiar with St. John 
and some of us had friends, so it almost 
seemed like getting home. The city 
has an interesting history extending 
back to the days of the Acadians, 
when the French flag waved from the 

In 1877 it was almost totally de- 
stroyed by fire, but is larger to-day 

than ever before. Like Halifax, it is 
built on the sides of a hill and has a 
fine harbor. 

The patriotic citizen of St. John, in 
an endeavor to lift from his town the 
veil of obscurity, states many facts to 
show how progressive it is and how 
superior it is to Halifax, its rival. 
He points out many interesting things, 
but the city's chief bid for fame lies in 
the Reversing Falls. The name de- 
scribes them. The phenomenon is 
easily understood when the nature of 
the river in reference to its outlet is 
understood. The River St. John flows 
over four hundred and fifty miles be- 
fore it empties into the Bay of Fundy. 
With its tributaries it drains millions 
of acres in Maine, Quebec and New 
Brunswick, and is emptied into the sea 
through a rocky chasm not over five 
hundred feet wide. The tides at St. 
John have an average rise of twenty- 
six feet. At high tide the sea has a 
descent of fifteen feet into the river, 
and at low tide the river has a like fall 
into the sea. Only at half-tide is the 
river navigated in safety. At other 
times a wild tumult of the waters takes 
place, through which many have given 
their lives in an attempt to pass. 

All Sunday it rained in torrents, and 
reports of floods came in from every 
direction. On Monday our tires ar- 
rived, and at three o'clock we set out, 
in spite of the downpour which still 
continued. We followed the St. John 
River to Westfield, which route af- 
forded a continuous panorama of beau- 
tiful scenery. It was dark when we 
left Westfield, but we continued out to 
Welsford, it taking four hours to cover 
the thirty miles, owing to the terrible 
condition of the road. We left at nine 
next morning, and we reached the capi- 
tal of New Brunswick at two, after a 
hard run of eighty-two miles in the 
rain over dangerous roads. The water 
in many places being fifteen inches 
deep on them. 

Fredericton has a population of 8,000 
and is located on the St. John River, 
which is navigable all the way to the 
ocean. It is the cathedral city of the 
Church of England in the province, 



containing military barracks and the 
University of New Brunswick. 

From Fredericton we pushed on in 
successive days to Dumfries and 
Woodstock, where we crossed the fron- 
tier into Houlton in the State of Maine. 
All this time the rain continued. In 
many places the culverts had been 
washed away, and we had to stop and 
build temporary bridges. The machine 
often sank in mud and water to the 
hubs, and it is simply wonderful how 
it ever stood the strain. 

The sun came out the next morning, 

and never had it been so welcome. The 

run was to Bangor. We reached Mat- 

|tawamkeag at one thirty, lunched, and 

lleft at two thirty. About six miles out 

jjof Old Town we got stuck in the mud, 

Sand it took a block and tackle and four 

■horses to get us out, so that it was bed- 

[Itime when we slid into Bangor. 

The next day we made Portland, 

]|from which city it is an easy day's run 

to Boston. We had fine weather and 

enjoyed the home stretch immensely. 

This part of our journey is too well 

known to relate in detail. We fairly 
flew over the roads, up hill and down. 
First, we would be in a valley, with 
our vision limited; then, suddenly 
mounting a hill, an enormous view 
would spread out before us, disclosing 
villages and church spires sharply out- 
lined in the clear, crisp air. We sped 
through village after village, all alike — 
one long street, patient teams of yoked 
oxen, a few loungers about the gen- 
eral stores, a horse and team or two — 
all passed in a jiffy, as if one were 
seated in a moving-picture theatre, and 
then out again on the narrow country 
road, with trees and telegraph poles 
flying by. 

With our safe arrival in Boston we 
had the laugh on many of our friends, 
who predicted, and undoubtedly ex- 
pected, that we could never make the 
trip we had. Two hundred and sixty- 
one cities, towns and villages were vis- 
ited, giving our party a pretty thor- 
ough knowledge of the country and 
natives of the Maritime Provinces and 
the State of Maine. 


Hushed is the harsh staccato of the noon ; 
Hid in the hazel coppice a lone bird 
Dwells lingeringly upon one liquid word, 

Save this adown the air there drifts no tune. 

The wandering hill-breezes are aswoon ; 

The pines that rhythmic in the morning stirred, 
Like viol chords, are lifeless, and the blurred, 

Dim birchen aisles have stilled their whispered rune. 

The chattering harvesters have ceased to chide 

Where the ripe wheat in drowsy windrows gleams ; 

The far off murmur of the chafing tide 

Like an old song but half remembered seems ; 

And vagrant Pan, his reed-pipes cast aside, 
Is drugged with the deep opiate of dreams ! 

^Another Offspring of Old Dorchester 


THAT the importance of a town, 
in the social or commercial 
scales of the state to which it 
belongs, is not always indicated by the 
number of its inhabitants, is no more 
fully illustrated than in the case of 
Stoughton, Mass., a town set apart 
from Dorchester nearly two centuries 

Situated just beyond the shadow of 
Great Blue Hill, and enjoying, with 
Sharon, the most elevated site between 
Boston and Taunton, Stoughton, 
mother of both Sharon and Canton, is 
a town which Massachusetts may well 
look upon with pride, whose healthful 
location is portrayed by the longevity 
of its citizens, many of whom have 
nearly reached the century mark. 

Good air, good water, and good 
neighbors) when coupled with excellent 
schools, liberal churches and numerous 
social orders, form a combination 
which makes for comfort to the citi- 
zens of any town. Add to these a 
scenic beauty which is not excelled by 
any town in Eastern Massachusetts 
and you have a faint idea of the attrac- 
tions of Stoughton. 

When, in 1726, this budding town 
decided to free itself from the parent 
rule, its people chose Stoughton for a 
title in honor of William Stoughton, 
then Lieutenant-Governor of Massa- 

According to the one requirement 
made in the incorporating statute, a 
"learned Orthodox minister, of good 
conversation," in the person of Rev. 
Sam'l Dunbar, was settled within the 
first year of the town's independence. 
The descendants of this first minister's 
followers, together with the new 
comers who have cast their lot in this 
thrifty little town, to-day require the 

services of six able pastors, of as many 
different creeds, in a like number of 
beautiful and well supported churches. 

Few indeed are the towns in New 
England where the social, religious, 
and commercial activities are more in 
harmony than in Stoughton. 

Very little of that class distinction 
which is proving such a drawback to 
many country towns, owing to the 
jealousy aroused, is to found here, on 
account of the comparative equality 
of the citizens. No very poor and no 
very wealthy residents are located in 
Stoughton. Nearly all of the property 
holders are engaged in the active pur- 
suit of some business or profession, 
while those employed by them are 
held in respect and high esteem. Few 
are yet able to retire from the battle 
for gold, and it matters little, to the 
Stoughtonite, what position his brother 
holds in the ranks, so long as all are 
engaged in a common cause. 

During the year just ended the more 
energetic and public-spirited faction of 
business and professional men, headed 
by Dr. W. O. Faxon, Senator to the 
Massachusetts Legislature from this 
district, organized themselves into a 
Board of Trade, which now numbers 
150 members. 

This body, though young, has al- 
ready made its power very apparent in 
the furtherance of the commercial in- 
terests of the town. 

No better example of the unity be- 
tween the public organizations than 
that shown in the Industrial Exposi- 
tion, held by the Board of Trade in 
the Town Hall of Stoughton, in Febru- 
ary of the present year, can be cited. 

For a town of six or seven thou- 
sand inhabitants an Industrial Expo- 
sition would seem, to the general 




public, a most stupendous undertak- 
ing', yet Stoughton speaks with pride 
of the treriiendous success of the 
"Fair," when nearly $2000 was realized 
clear of all expenses, which amounted 
to some $600, bringing the donation up 
to more than forty cents per capita. 

Schools, clubs and manufactories, 
aided by church circles and every 
public-spirited citizen, joined heart and 
hand in the cause, until the great Town 
Hall presented a scene not unlike 
Boston's Mechanics Building at the 
time of a Food Fair. 

The Chelsea Braiding Company ex- 
hibited a large line of elastic web- 
bing, braid, and cord used upon sur- 
gical instruments, besides fancy weaves 
used in ladies' belts, gentlemen's sus- 
penders, etc. 

The Stoughton Mills gave an in- 
teresting display of wool shoddies, and 
the different stages of development 
through which the materials pass be- 
fore being rewoven into cloth for storm 
skirts, heavy cloaks, men's suiting, and 
horse blankets. 

Upham Brothers, who are all that 

Stoughton industries only were rep- 
resented, yet the entire building was 
literally crammed with booths and 

Upon the first floor the Stoughton 
Rubber Company exhibited a large line 
of fine rubber garments, including rain 
coats, hats, and reefers of all weights, 
while the process used in their manu- 
facture was illustrated by rubber in 
the different stages of refinement, from 
a large cube of the crude material 
down to the finest sheeting. 

is left of the many shoe manufacturer 
who once caused Stoughton to b 
named as a "shoe town," had turned on 
corner of the building into a display 
room for a complete and extensiv 
line of high-grade foot-wear. Men' 
shoes of every size and descriptior 
color and last were here shown, whil 
drummers for this line of mercharJ 
dise hovered about, making mend 
notes and calculations, for Upharl 
Brothers manufacture shoes for th 
trade only. 



The Belcher Last Company, whom 
j'| Stoughton claims to be the most ex- 
tensive manufacturers of lasts in the 
world, also occupied a large space, in 
which were shown lasts in all stages of 
I completion, from the rude block down 
to the finished article. 

Chas. Stretton & Son exhibited a 
j| large line of ribbed under-garments 
and knit goods, arranged within a 
|| booth which was gaily decked in 
j! colored crepe paper, like many of its 
i neighbors. 

French and Ward, who manufacture 
eiderdown and krinkledown, which 


work was shown, together with that 
used on automobile tops, and wearing- 
apparel worn by the joy riders. 

The Packard Dressing* Company ex- 
hibited a variety of shoe dressings and 
polishes, which attracted much atten- 
tion . from the fact that many of the 
articles displayed had been often used 
by the interested parties without a 
thought of their place of manufacture. 
Known only by their title, they were 
purchased from the retailer without a 
glance at the name of Stoughton, 
which appeared under the maker's 

■: J' 

-f //<■ 


^ //4** 






The first record oe the oldest musicae society in the United States 

originated with them, gave a large dis- 
play of baby blankets, carriage robes, 
and other woolen, goods, including 
many styles of fancy dress material 
and suiting. 

The Plymouth Rubber Company, a 
firm which has rapidly come to the 
front during the past decade, until 
they claim to be the largest manu- 
facturers of rubberized cloth in the 
world, displayed samples of the ma- 
terials which they coat, from the finest 
silks to the heaviest cloth. Rubber 
rolls, heels, and other moulded rubber 

Another festooned nook, which 
called forth many exclamations of ap- 
proval, was the display of portraits and 
photographs by Mr. Geo. A. Gerard, 
whose work has become the admiration 
of his townspeople. 

Space forbids that we enumerate the 
countless exhibitions of smaller pro- 
portions, such as the box and incubator 
display of L. P. French Company, the 
tame bees of Mr. Henry Britton and the 
illuminating apparatus of the Edison 
Electric Company. 

One other feature of the exposition, 



which held the attention of the out- 
sider, was the plan for an enormous 
shoe factory, and a small city, as yet 
but a plan, existing on paper only, 
which, in the near future, unless we 
mistake the ability of the organized 
Stoughtonites, will be a helpful reality 
to Norfolk County. 

Representative H. E. Holbrook is 
the promoter of this proposition, by 
which the townspeople shall build the 
factory and develop the surrounding 
country until they can offer homes to 
seven hundred shoe workers within a 
short distance of the mill in which they 
are ernployed. When all is in readi- 
ness they intend to offer free rental, 

tions which can hardly be called vil- 
lages, but are better described as neigh- 

West Stoughton, the location of two 
factories, has the largest number of 
homes outside of the centre or town 

North Stoughton boasts a square 
and one church. South Stoughton is 
the home of well-to-do farmers, while 
the section known as Dry Pond is the 
birth-place of another business enter- 

About twenty-five years ago two 
owners of neighboring farms upon 
which pop-corn was extensively grown 
entered into partnership and put upon 

Swan's tavern, butet by Boston and Taunton Stage Co. 

or, perhaps, give the factory outright 
to a reliable firm who will undertake 
the manufacture of shoes here. 

The site which is responsible for 
this plan is located very near the South 
Stoughton station of the N. Y., N. H. 
& H. Railroad, in a level, open country 
now occupied only by scattered farms. 

During the four days of the exposi- 
tion a carefully selected program of 
amusement was furnished and on the 
evening of the third day Governor 
Draper, with some members of his 
staff, lent the dignity of their presence 
and encouraging words, to the affair. 

Stoughton is divided into five see- 

the market shelled pop-corn in pack- 
ages. Later they admitted another 
partner and took the firm name of 
Smith, Clapp & Gay. Their business! 
prospered and within a few years they, 
were obliged to buy corn from their! 
neighbors in order to supply cus- 
tomers. The convenience of the! 
shelled corn was at once recognized!' 
by the consumer, and to-day these! 
originators of package pop-corn buy in| 
car-load lots from Western growers,! 
and sell only to the wholesaler. One 
storehouse in which the corn is kept? 
has a capacity of one hundred tons 
Thus it may be seen that even the 

An attractive group oe churches 



Photograph by Geo. Gerard 


farmers of Stoughton are more enter- 
prising than some of their neighbors 
in large towns. 

Ponds and rivers abound in Stough- 
ton, which seems to be blessed, be- 
yond the average town, with beauti- 
ful walks, drives, and woodland nooks 
where summer breezes cordially invite 
one to stray, and watch their antics 
among the trembling leaves. 

Not far from Dry Pond, towards the 
Centre, Britton's Pond furnishes 
power for a small factory which has 
remained in the possession of one 
family and in continuous operation for 
more than sixty years. 

Three printing presses find support 
in Stoughton, those used in the pub- 
lication of two weekly newspapers, the 
"Sentinel" and "Record," and one en- 
tirely devoted to job work, known as 
the Pequa Press. 

Near the source of Salisbury Brook, 
which flows through Stoughton and 
Brockton into the Taunton River, 
stands an old landmark which claims 
the attention of many visitors to 
Stoughton. This interesting structure 
is known as Swan's Tavern, built in 

1807 by the Boston and Taunton Stage 
Company, and presided over by Land- 
lord Capt. Elisha Swan, who caused 
this "half-way house" to become most 
popular as a centre for sleighing and 
dancing parties, as well as a comfort- 
able resting place for travelers. The 
coming of the railroad in 1835 robbed 
the old tavern of its principal support, 
and to-day the house, which has been 
the scene of much revelry in olden 
times, is but the quiet, peaceful abode 
of a New England farmer. An auto- 
graph upon one of its window panes, 
dated October 26, 181 1, is the only in- 
dication of its one-time friends. 

The square, which constitutes the 
shopping district of Stoughton, is un- 
usually attractive, while the buildings 
surrounding the same are much more 
beautiful than many a large town can 

About the first structure to claim 
the attention of the visitor, who enters 
by trolley, is the handsome Town 
House, whose massive brick walls, or- 
namented with fine granite, rise two 
and one-half stories to a slated roof, 
above which Old Glory constantly 



waves, while velvet lawns, gemmed 
with trees and shrubs, relieve the gray 
outlines of graveled driveways. 

Across the square to the left, a 
church, where Universalists congre- 
gate, points its gilded spire, like a 
guiding finger, upward; while the site 
of Stoughton's first house of worship 
is marked by a granite stone on the 
green that stretches between the 
church and street. 

Beyond this is seen the Public 
Library, whose exquisite beauty is a 
triumph of architectural skill, even to 
the pearl-like lanterns which surmount 
the marble stairs at the entrance. 
Dedicated in 1904, the style is strictly 
modern. A visit to the interior but 
increases one's admiration, for the fix- 
tures and furnishings fully justify the 
anticipations aroused by the exterior. 

Some over 11,000 volumes are 
neatly arranged about the shelves 
while the reading-rooms are filled with 
magazines and newspapers. 

Among the social organizations the 
oldest and, perhaps, widest known is 
the old Stoughton Musical Society, 
which is doubtless the first of its kind 
to be organized in the United States. 
This club begun to hold meetings as 
early as 1762, when it consisted chiefly 

of the First Parish Church Choir 
under the leadership of Capt. Samuel 
Talbot. Not until 1786, however, did 
it become a recognized organization, 
when it was made up of the best male 
singers in all the churches of Stough- 
ton. They met but twice each year, 
on May Training Day and Christmas, 
but their fame soon spread abroad 
until the mother town, Dorchester, be- 
came jealous of their popularity, chal- 
lenging them to a contest with her 
own talent. The meeting was arranged 
in 1790 and Stoughton, with twenty 
selected male voices, unaided by in- 
strumental accompaniment, easily won 
from Dorchester, in spite of the sup- 
port given the latter by noted Boston 
singers, female voices and bass viol. 
Even the defeated musicians were 
forced to admit the superiority of the 

Some time later female voices were 
admitted to the meeting, which has 
occurred but once each year since 
1825, generally on Christmas day, 
until recent years, when the date was 
changed to January first. 

The one hundredth anniversary of 
this society was held in Stoughton 
Town House, on Nov. 7, 1886, attended 
by the Governor andothernotedpeople. 

Wai/ter Swan block, Stoughton square 



Photograph by G< 

Residence oe Geo. B. Belcher, Seaver street 

There are now about five hundred 
members, one hundred of whom, with 
an orchestra of twelve pieces, accepted 
the invitation to sing at the Chicago 
Exposition in 1893, when they were the 
only New England organization to 
respond, although several others were 
bidden and at first intended to appear. 
All expenses were met by the Society 
and the success of their work sent their 
praises far and wide. 

The object of the order is to pre- 
serve from oblivion the work of our 
earliest native composers. 

Members of the Stoughton Musical 
Society are now to be found in many 
other towns around Stoughton. Joseph 
Belcher, its president, resides in Ran- 
dolph, as does its present chorister, 
Nelson Mann. Vice-president R. T. 
Pratt lives in Holbrook, vice-chorister 
C. G. Faunce is found in North Abing- 
ton and trustee Geo. W. Porter in 
Avon. Trustee K. R. Clifford calls 

Stoughton home, as does the secretary 
and treasurer, E. A. Jones, who is 
one of the most active members, being 
a most ardent lover of music, which is 
his profession. 

Another society whose influence has 
done much for the public good of 
Stoughton, and which has raised the 
social standard of the town to a high 
position, morally, is the Chicataubut 
Club, named for old Chief Chicataubut, 
the first chief to sign a treaty of peace 
with the English. 

This club, which was at first a 
gentleman's order, was incorporated 
under the laws of Massachusetts No- 
vember 23, 1903, for the purpose of 
establishment and maintenance of a 
place for reading-rooms, libraries, and 
social meetings. 

Buying the Atherton Estate, located 
just beyond the Public Library, they 
converted the old mansion into a club 
house, whose appointments and fur- 



nishings are all that could be desired. 
Reception-rooms, reading-rooms, and 
billiard hall made attractive by velvet 
rugs, mission furniture, and draperies, 
offer various means of diversion and 
entertainment, while the enormous 
paintings from the brush of a local 
artist, F. M. Lamb, are a delight to 
the lover of art. 

The club, which began with fifty 
charter members, is limited to one hun- 
dred, and now numbers nearly seventy, 
with the following officers: President, 
Mr. Walter Swan; vice-president, Mr. 
Ira Burnham; secretary, Mr. Edwin 
Jones ; treasurer, Henry S. Jones. 

On Jan. 26, 1905, a ladies' auxiliary 
was formed, beginning with thirteen 
charter members, which has increased 
to about sixty, having the following 
officers : President, Miss Gertrude 
Belcher; vice-president, Mrs. I. V. 
Marston ; secretary and treasurer, Mrs. 
N. K. Standish. 

During the year of 1909 the stable 
adjoining the club house was converted 
into a hall, thirty by forty feet, and 
equipped with cloak and dressing- 
rooms of the latest, improved design. 

Unlike many clubs of this kind, 
strict temperance is enforced and 
gambling in any form is forbidden. 
Neither religious nor political matters 
influence the acceptance of a new mem- 
ber, who may come from any church or 
organization, as long as a good moral 
record is shown. 

The Stoughton Historical Society 
has done much for the preservation of 
valuable records, and the marking of 
ancient sites. 

This society was organized in 1894 
under the leadership of Hon. E. C. 
Monk, who gave the marker which 
now indicates the southeast corner of 
the plantation granted to the Ponka- 
poag Indians, and occupied by them 
until the last brave passed on, leaving 

Stoughton town hall 



i'r | 

i I 

Monk bi<ock, Stoughton square 

but a memory of a once powerful tribe. 
The site of the first house, first church 
and first school building has been 
marked by a granite stone given by this 

There are now about seventy mem- 
bers, who meet eight times each year at 
their rooms in the library building, 
under the leadership of Mr. H. L. 
Johnson, president, Miss Amelia Clif- 
ton, secretary, and Richard B. Ward, 

The stone given by Mr. Monk also 
marks the corner of the first land 
deeded to a white man in Stoughton. 
Mr. Geo. Monk, to whose ancestor this 
land was deeded, still owns the prop- 
erty, which consists of a grove of 
pine and a beautiful body of water, 
now known as Glen Echo Lake. Here 
the Apostle Elliott preached to the 
native redmen when Stoughton was 
in its infancy. The sparkling pond, 
with its natural shore, has never 
been marred by the hand of civiliza- 
tion. The reservation is now under 

the management of the Bristol and 
Norfolk Street Railway Company, who 
have recently opened the grounds to 
the public by means of a branch rail- 
road which runs nearly half a mile 
through natural forest to the centre 
of the park. The attractions offered 
are many and varied. Every accom- 
modation is given picnic parties and 
tourists, while excellent facilities for 
boating, bathing, and conoeing, are en- 
joyed. Bowling alleys, dance hall and 
an excellent pavilion make of this play- 
ground a spot where old or young 
may find rest or amusement, as suits 
their mood. Sunday-school picnic 
parties may be found here almost any 
day throughout the season, where they 
delight in the freedom of the grove, as 
they listen to the song of birds and 
gather the wild flowers or berries 
which abound. 

Although Stoughton was once 
known as a shoe town, on account of 
the many factories where footwear was 
manufactured, since 1880, these firms 



have gradually given place to other 
industries until but one shoe factory 
remains and four hundred skilled shoe 
workers go out of Stoughton to their 
places of employment each morning. The 
facilities for the manufacture of shoes 
are as good to-day in Stoughton as 
they were thirty years ago, and it is 
the aim of the people to see the old 
factories once more in operation and 
their shoe workers employed again in 
their home town. 

To the manufacturer who would settle 
here we can say that abundant power, 
excellent light, and good facilities for 
shipment without transshipment to 
Boston, await the new comer while the 
train service to Boston is excellent and 
the fare very low when season tickets 
are employed. 

To the farmer we would say that 
Stoughton land is proving very pro- 
ductive for truck gardening and 
poultry raising is successfully carried 
on by many residents, while an excel- 
lent Grange is a prominent feature of 
the social life of this town. 

Schools of every grade, including 
a High School which prepares the 
student for college, and a Business 
School of Shorthand, are maintained 
at a cost of over $20,000 yearly. And 
opportunities for social intercourse are 
unlimited ; while markets and shops 
of every nature, including a large de- 
partment store, cater to the needs of 
the household. Add to these a people 
whose cordial welcome to a stranger 
is unequaled by any town in Massachu- 
setts and what more can be desired? 

Photograph hy Geo. Gerard 

Another Stoughton residence 




Photograph hy H.W. Spooner 

OiyD " Mother Ann 

... ...'■' ' • ' "' -^ 


A Gloucester built motor-boat which holds the speed record oe its class 

Motor-Boating on the North Shore 


NO longer does it suffice, though 
one is the most pronounced 
of motor-boat enthusiasts, to 
hover the engine and gear of his craft, 
for the delightful uncertainty of that 
operation is no more ! 

The modern motor goes about its 
business in so thoroughly satisfactory 
a manner that the owner thereof, left 
heart and fancy free, begins to open his 
eyes to his surroundings and to de- 
mand of them some tribute of beauty, 
interest or inspiration. 

Where to go, what to see and what 
to do are quite sure to become absorb- 
ing problems as soon as the "trial trip" 
state of mind has passed. 

To those who have reached this 
happy condition — to whom it has be- 
come a second nature to listen sub- 
consciously to the rhythm of the motor 
and to know thereby all that need be 

known of its few requirements — a bit 
of information as to a locality made to 
order for the enjoyment of their favor- 
ite sport may prove most welcome. 

The Great Architect must have fore- 
seen the motor-boat age when He built 
Gloucester Harbor and surrounded it 
with such a variety of interest and at- 

But first be sure that your propeller 
has not picked up some gratuitous ad- 
dition to its bulk. Motor craft draw so 
little water and their propellers are, in 
consequence, so near the surface, that 
they are very open to being taken ad- 
vantage of in this way. A clean pro- 
peller means a fast, clean trip. 

You will hardly have gone a hundred 
feet before the song of your motor will 
have told you that it is getting a good 
mixture. The Gloucester air is quite 
free from fogs and dead flukes that 




in some localities keep the best of car- 
bureters guessing-. 

Another advantage that the motor- 
boat enthusiast will appreciate is that 
the tides about Gloucester do not aver- 
age over eight feet, which is very mod- 
erate, and, with the cleanness of the 
coast, channels and landmarks, are al- 
tered but little by them. 

If one is going up the smaller streams 
— and they afford the most delightful 
of excursions — it is best to go at high 
tide, unless a little acquainted with the 
channel ; otherwise one can forget the 
tides in motor-boating about Glouces- 
ter. The harbor is one of the easiest in 
the world to enter. The entrance is 
broad and plainly marked, and the har- 
bor entirely free from obstructions at 
all stages of the tides. 

Our own trip was taken in a twenty- 
passenger launch (it is wonderful how 
easily these boats accommodate large 
parties, so free are they from weighty 
encumbrances and so small is the space 
required for the engine), certainly a 
craft of sufficient size to test the water- 

draughts of the nooks and corners 
which we entered. 

Before starting for Gloucester we 
took the precaution to call up "Main 
491" (that is the weather-bureau man, 
you know). They are good fellows up 
there, and accommodating to a degree. 
They reported at the weather bureau : 
"Very unfavorable for motor-boating; 
heavy fogs and indications of squalls." 

This, fortunately, we accepted as a 
good omen, and on arriving at Glouces- 
ter (one hour from Boston by the Bos- 
ton & Maine) we found conditions ideal 
for our purpose — sky slightly overcast, 
breeze rippling the surface, and the 
motor singing contentedly "air enough, 
air enough, air enough for anything 
you want I" 

Our skipper knew his business too 
well to ask us where we wanted to go. 
We wanted to see things, and he took 
us to where there were things to see. 

He stood at the wheel, well forward, 
and we took a position at his side. 

"Much motor-boating hereabout?" 

"Is there ! Come up any fine day in 

Photograph by H. W. Spooner 

Bass Rocks 



Photograph by H. W. Spooner 

Race chasm 

the summer and you can see most any- 
thing- that is built in that line, from an 
Italian lobsterman's dory to a floating 
palace. Why, right over in that little 
shop they have built seventy-five boats 
since the craze began, and they are 
building some beauties now. Perhaps 
you'd like to see them?" 

We would. Accordingly, we landed 
at the convenient little float and looked 
over the beauties. And beauties they 
were: a cruiser with four berths for- 
ward and all accommodations for com-